


Dying of the Light

by Arcacia



Series: Counterparts of Consumption [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-05
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 04:08:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 38,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4732283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcacia/pseuds/Arcacia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione spends most of her time buried in her work, valiantly maintaining the image that all is fine. Draco has moved from seeking his father's approval to seeking the bottom of the bottle. The war may have been over for years, but the effects it leaves behind festers still.</p>
<p>Prequel to Flesh and Blood and its continuation, Flesh and Blood:Extended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The clock ticks loud in the room.

Hermione stares out the window, absentmindedly picking at her nails for imaginary dirt. She feels eyes on her and knows she is being observed. Outside, a child chases a balloon in the playground while her mother stands close by. Hermione watches quietly as the wind picks up and carries the white balloon up and away. The child starts to cry as her mother rushes forward to comfort her.

Hermione looks away from the scene outside the window. The clock tells her she has ten minutes left to the session. The eyes have not left her.

"Sometimes I dream of-" —  _bodies falling around her, flashes of green light, Fred unmoving, eyes wide and glassy, Lavender twitching feebly —_  "- my teeth falling out." Hermione says and gives Dr Janet a tight smile.

The good doctor smiles back sympathetically. Hermione feels a little guilt seep in from the lie.

"It can seem scary," says Janet, "but that's a very normal dream. Tell me, are you feeling pressured from work? Perhaps you just recently had a project or a case that you felt you couldn't quite handle?"

"Something like that," says Hermione, which isn't entirely a lie. "I work with the regulation of... exotic animals."

"Do you mean like in a zoo?" asks Janet.

"No," says Hermione as she shakes her head. "I work for the government."

Janet makes a humming noise and jots down something in her notebook — the pen doesn't scratch against the paper like quill does. Hermione takes a deep breath and has to will herself to not go over and rip the notebook out of her hands. She fumbles for a pillow and squeezes that instead. Janet looks up briefly, eyes her hand-squeezing-pillow motion and bends her head down to make further notes.

An alarm rings suddenly. Hermione discreetly breathes a sigh of relief and releases her death grip on the pillow. She stands and busies herself with patting herself down of imaginary dust while she studiously avoids Janet's keen — accusing — gaze.

"I'll see you next week then, Hermione," says Janet before she leads Hermione out of her office. "I think we're making great progress."

* * *

Hermione stares at the files in front of her and wishes she was making great progress with them.

The ministry is always bustling, but thankfully her department is relatively subdued. Somewhere along the line, she's lost the ability to deal with large crowds or even small groups filled with strangers.

Hermione has never been a particularly sociable child, having always preferred books to people — books can't betray you, books can't tease you mercilessly about the state of your hair and teeth, books can't use you then spit you out with nothing more than a pat on the back for a job well done. Growing up in the midst of war and chaos did her no favours in that matter either. No, she'd much rather sit in her dingy little office, focusing on important work that matters.

Which is why it's frustrating that she has barely made any sort of headway with it.

Hermione hadn't really been lying when she told Janet she works with animals. But she can't very well tell the muggle woman her work concerns the likes of werewolves and things that go bump in the night. She'll be committed before she can so much as say 'magic is real!'

Hermione pinches the bridge of her nose and attempts to concentrate on the words in front of her. She releases a frustrated grunt when the ink begins melting into each other and the words seem like they're squiggling off the parchment.

She rubs her eyes tiredly.

The prejudice against werewolves is so ingrained in wizarding society that even trying to get them to acknowledge the most basic of rights for them is like pulling teeth.

It didn't help that one Fenrir Greyback has had his run during the war, terrorizing the community left, right and centre. Never mind that Remus Lupin died — futilely — for their cause. Hermione had barely managed to veto the ridiculous proposition that werewolves be made to wear magical collars akin to the electronic ones people put on dogs.

As if it isn't bad enough that people do that to dogs. As if werewolves are not human most nights of a month.

Hermione's stomach rumbles and she is reminded that she has missed lunch with Harry and Ron, opting to use the time for her therapy session instead. She's given them some tosh about needing to spend time in the Ministry Archives, an excuse that Ron had readily accepted considering his investment in the success of her latest project but not one that had been able to fool Harry at all.

He trusts her implicitly though and didn't question her real reason for shirking them. Hermione feels a little like she has betrayed that trust even though she knows it is silly. No matter what, Harry wants her safe and happy, this she knows. If that meant a day of missing lunch every week to spend an hour in session with a counsellor, he'd gladly let her go. Not that Harry knows about these meetings. She just didn't want him — them, all of them — to worry unnecessarily.

"Miss Granger?" A voice asks and Hermione startles, her chair crashing backwards to the floor as she leaps automatically into a defensive position.

— _too slow, her reaction time is too late. She'd be dead on the ground many times over. Stupid for not paying attention. Stupid for allowing someone to sneak up on her. Stupid, stupid, stu_ —

"Miss Granger, are you alright?" asks the voice, effectively cutting off Hermione's train of thought and she slowly lowers her wand as she registers the person meekly peeking her head in at the doorway of Hermione's office.

"Sorry, Berenice, just a little jumpy today," Hermione says and at her secretary's sceptical look, she adds, "I missed lunch as well. It makes me a little jittery."

"Ah," intones Berenice, nodding knowingly and swings the door wider, stepping fully into the office. "I have an uneaten apple if you want. I was going to have it after lunch but they had chocolate pudding in the canteen." Berenice grins, unabashed of making what she would have deemed the 'sinful' choice.

Hermione dutifully chuckles as she pulls the chair upright and eases herself back on it again. "Thanks for the offer, but I think I'll pass on the apple."

"What do you need?" asks Hermione once she settles down and have arranged her papers in order.

"Here are the files you were asking for earlier," says Berenice as she hands over a thick stack of folders. Hermione takes them from her and starts to flip through them idly. "And one Mr Slava is asking to see you again."

"Slava?" Hermione asks, brows crinkling. The name isn't familiar to her at all.

"Yes, he's been asking to see you for a few months now, but it seems now he's been sending in his requests every day," says Berenice as she checks the notepad that she always carries with her. It's something that Hermione had introduced to her along with the muggle pen of which Berenice had taken to like a duck to water.

Hermione frowns. This is news to her. "A few months? Every day now?"

"Yes. I've been leaving the memos for you. Have you not seen them?" says Berenice, sounding a little miffed that all her efforts have been for naught. Hermione thinks guiltily about the piles of notes that she's shoved to the back of her drawer, having been too busy with one thing or another to pay much attention to them.

"It must have slipped my mind," waves Hermione dismissively, ignoring the indignant little huff from Berenice. "Remind me again about what he wants?"

"It seems he wants to talk to someone about a... vampire issue," says Berenice whose voice dropped into a conspiratorial whisper at the last two words. Hermione gives her an odd look to which Berenice waggles her eyebrows like she is indulging in a big secret.

"Send him to Gawain. Isn't he the one handling the... vampire issue," at the two words Hermione drops the volume of her voice into the same breathy whisper, "for now?"

"Yes, but I've sent him there before and he claims that Gawain is making things worse," says Berenice, her brows furrowing.

"I would love to help, but I can't. I really can't," Hermione gestures at the piles of papers and folders on her desk. Berenice's countenance grows sympathetic and Hermione nearly winces at that.

"Not to worry, guv'nor. I'll tell our Mr Slava that he'll have to contend with one Mr Gawain Robbins," says Berenice as she jots down the, frankly pointless, note into her trusty pad. She clicks the pen and clicks it again twice for good measure as she nods satisfactorily to herself.

"If there's nothing else, I'll be outside then," says Berenice, turning to make her way out.

"Actually, Berenice," Hermione says, stopping Berenice in her tracks and prompting the woman to tilt her head back at Hermione in question. "I'll have that apple if you don't mind." Berenice turns back and gives her a thumbs up before rushing out to grab the fruit for her boss.

* * *

The smell of roast and Yorkshire pudding hits Hermione's senses the moment she lets herself into the Burrow. Her mouth waters and her stomach loudly protests the paltry offering of an apple for the entire day.

Harry, who arrives just after her, gives her an amused glance which she blatantly ignores in favour of hanging up her coat.

"Hello, Hermione," comes an airy voice behind Harry and Hermione leans around him to see the owner.

"Hi Luna," says Hermione with a little wave. "Got dragged here by the ball and chain?"

"Oh, I don't mind," says Luna, a tiny smile on her lips as she stares vacantly at a point above Hermione's head. "Mrs Weasley makes lovely brussels sprouts. It's the only one the Snorbecks would consent to eat."

"The Snorbecks or you?" Harry ribs her good-naturedly. Luna only smiles her dreamy grin and declines to answer, though it is hard to miss the twinkle in those blue eyes.

Hermione can't help the grin that comes over her. It is unexpected — though, Hermione supposes that if anyone had bothered to look closely, it wouldn't have been a surprising matter at all — but Luna has been good for Harry, especially after him and Ginny had drifted apart. It isn't anyone's fault, not really. Ginny has her own share of problems. Everyone does.

"Oi, are you lot just going to stand around all night?" shouts a voice as its owner comes through the living room to lean against the doorway of the entrance hallway. "Some of us are starving!"

"You're always starving, Ronald," says Hermione just as Harry says, "When are you ever not hungry?"

The two best friends look at each other for a moment before bursting into giggles. Luna shares a chuckle before bounding past Ron towards the dining room saying something that sounds suspiciously like "roasted chestnut brussels sprouts" in a disturbingly reverent tone.

"She's barmy, that one is," says Ron, making a face at the idea that anyone could enjoy the revolting greens before turning an irritated glare at Harry and Hermione. "Then you two should be aware of the suffering you're putting me through."

"Merlin forbid you stop imbibing any sustenance for thirty minutes," says Hermione with an exasperated eye roll.

"Do you get Lavender to shove in bread rolls and kippers into your mouth while you sleep?" asks Harry, a finger tapping his chin as his expression turns serious. "Does she also work your jaw so you don't choke on them?"

A strange, snorting sort of noise escapes Hermione at that. Harry pats her back nonchalantly like he didn't just ponder Ron's night habits out loud.

"Yes, yes, make fun of the ginger twat, har de har," grouses Ron, turning towards where Luna had disappeared to previously and heading to it, leaving Hermione and Harry to share another amused glance before following.

Stepping into the dining room, Hermione is immediately engulfed into the warm embrace of Molly Weasley. An 'oof' sounds tells her that Harry too has been captured into a similar predicament.

Over the years, she has outgrown Molly Weasley by almost a head, but Hermione still dips her forehead into Molly's shoulder, loops an arm to her back and returns the hug. The smell of freshly baked bread that is Molly lingers long after she has released her.

"You're skinny, too skinny, Hermione dear," says Molly as she ushers them into their seats. "And Harry, you and Luna both, you need to eat more. I simply can't have the three of you being swept off by the wind."

As the Weasleys and honorary family members — though some chairs remain painfully empty — chatter noisily around the table, passing potatoes and sending gravy boats whizzing past, Hermione feels herself letting go. The worry and the tension that have written themselves into her, becoming a permanent part of who she is, momentarily dissipates, leaving a lighter Hermione behind. She relaxes — truly — for the first time in a long while.

Hermione knows that feeling of tranquillity to be true when she looks at Lavender Brown, seated beside Ron, and doesn't feel the usual stab of guilt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those of you who don't know, this is the prequel to Flesh and Blood and its continuation, the imaginatively titled Flesh and Blood: Extended. The former is a one-shot that inspired all this madness, and the latter is a continuation of the one-shot that I will be updating at the same week as its prequel. I highly recommend reading all three.
> 
> As always, be kind to authors and leave a comment. Even a simple "I like it!" is enough to brighten any author's day.


	2. Chapter 2

Even drunk, Draco Malfoy knows the crooked, winding streets of Knockturn Alley like the back of his hand — the cobbles are raised slightly there, a metal rod juts out here, the steps are just slightly off kilter there. He knows it by pure repetition alone — there's only so many times a person's willing to trip over the same imprecisely laid cobblestones, pissed or not.

Besides, he's having enough trouble maintaining his balance as is without having to worry about shoddy workmanship getting in the way.

The ember liquid in the bottle under his robes swishes as he sways down the street. He's nicked the bottle right from under the pub owner's nose when they kicked him out and the fools were none the wiser. They should know by now to never turn your back on a Slytherin or some rubbish like that. And isn't he the poster boy for Slytherins?

The mark —  _it burns, it never stops burning_  — on his left forearm is proof of it after all. There's no getting rid of it either — he's tried. So he forgets. Or at least, he tries to. Most nights, with a little extra help, he succeeds. On others, the screaming in his head doesn't stop and sometimes he screams with it, solidarity and all that.

He pulls the bottle out and takes a long swig, wiping his mouth roughly as the firewhiskey scorches a hot trail down his throat.

Draco is so intent on avoiding the next potential point of falling that he doesn't hear them approaching. It's a novice mistake that would have Bellatrix whipping it out of him but she's long cold in the ground and the alcohol has done a sufficient job of dulling his senses — just the way he likes it.

Draco doesn't even realise they've summoned his wand away from him till it's far too late.

Their first mistake though, in the arrogance that they far outnumber him, is to not immobilize him. Their second mistake is to get within arm's reach of him.

There are merits to learning how to fight like a muggle, namely in that wizards tend not to expect a fist coming their way. Most prefer to think themselves above such savagery, even amongst the denizens of Knockturn Alley.

Lucius would be appalled, but it serves Draco well and he gets a few good punches in. Their clumsy, unpractised attempts at dodging him only lead to them knocking into each other. Unfortunately, fighting and alcohol never did make the best of bedfellows, so it is only a matter of time before he stumbles over his own two feet and goes down like a sack of apples.

He is inordinately proud when his attackers abandon their wands in favour of kicking and punching him with their own hands and feet. The spitting he finds, he doesn't appreciate as much. Neither does he much enjoy their angry calls of 'wanking, thieving, sod', 'buggering son of a whore' and 'bleeding death eater'.

Draco tries to open his mouth to protest that his mother is, in fact, a lovely woman who to his knowledge has never slept outside of her marriage, but one of them manages to kick him in the jaw and the only sound that comes out of him is a hiss of pain. A metallic taste floods his taste buds and he idly hopes he hasn't severed his tongue, unsure if tongues grew back or not.

Belatedly he remembers that he is a wizard — they probably have potions for the regrowing of tongues — and that he is capable of wandless, non-verbal, magic. He can't do a lot, but he can certainly do wordless summoning, very well in fact, as evidenced by that one time he sleepily intended to get pants from his drawers and ended up summoning half the Slytherin dorm's worth of pants. One of them in the midst of being pulled up Graham Monteague's bum.

Draco is careful enough to specify only  _his_  wand this time, thank you very much. In a flash, proving that the war never truly leaves you, he has his attackers propelled backwards, backs hitting stone walls in successive thuds. He shakily gets up, keeping his wand trained on them, and turns on the spot, but not before ensuring the bottle is still on him.

He lands on the Malfoy grounds face first, rolls himself onto his back, and promptly loses consciousness.

* * *

Draco wakes up cocooned in soft sheets with far too high a thread count number and on a mattress that yields easily under his weight. He blinks wearily, finding the shine of sunlight far too glaring for his liking. There is no headache that accompanies this. He has stopped getting them a while back. It probably isn't a good thing, but he finds it difficult to care much about anything these days. Except perhaps for where and when he can get his next drink.

Draco attempts to go back to sleep but the aggravating sun seems to be filtering through his eyelids what with how bright the rays feel. He grumbles and pushes himself up to a sitting position, eyes defiantly close till he is forced open them.

They do fly open though when he begins to feel the results of his impromptu fight from the previous night. Sore does not even begin to describe how he feels at the moment. Like he's been wrung through a presser would probably have been a better description. Although, he reflects, that it's not the worst he's ever been, so he supposes he should count himself lucky.

There is a small pot of ointment on the bedside table to his left, either left there by Mitzy, his house elf, or by his mother. Next to it is the bottle of whisky he had swiped last night, beautiful and enticing. Now that is definitely Mitzy's handiwork. Thank Merlin for house elves.

He passes over the ointment in favour of the bottle. The bruises, as there undoubtedly are some, he decides he will wear like a badge of honour.

A deep pull of liquid courage later, the bottle almost fully drained, he gets up on wobbly feet and dresses himself to face the day.

He bypasses the dining hall, not bothering to check if it's indeed a mealtime or if he has missed one, and heads straight to the Malfoy library.

Opening the doors, he steps in and takes a deep breath, letting the comforting smell of old books wash over him.

Other than his nightly excursions, the library is where he spends most his time at. Most of the Manor is a reflection of his family, grand and imposing with skeletons swept under the rugs of the drawing room, but the library has somehow, throughout everything, remained untouched by the subtle thread of despair that laced the rest of the house.

Draco strides purposefully to his usual nook. It is in a hidden corner tucked away from prying eyes — a place that even his father, for all his posturing about as master of the manor, has not been able to ferret him out in.

In his younger years, it was a place to hide from the acute disappointment that marred his father's face whenever the topic moved on to things like school results and quidditch. In later times, it became a much needed sanctuary from far more malevolent sources.

In the nook is an overstuff armchair, well-loved and wearing thin in parts where he keeps rubbing against while fidgeting for a comfortable position. In front of that chair is a table, piled high with various books and assorted knick knacks.

Several leather bound books lie open, exactly as he left them. Draco scans the pages quickly and quirks a tiny smile at them — he recalls having a sudden burning curiosity about vampires one day after re-reading one of the books he had nicked from Blaise back when they were still in school.

Who knew that Blaise had a secret love for thrashy penny romances?

Draco certainly didn't, at least not till he accidentally peeked into Blaise's trunk one day. Well, perhaps 'accidentally' isn't quite the right word. Draco didn't really realise he had a bit of an itchy hand problem till he started to pile together the things he has 'borrowed' from various people — which is basically what the table contains.

Draco drifts his fingers lightly over the items on the table.

He gently flicks the corner of a box of stale sweeties courtesy of Greg, the box itself is tied up with a hair ribbon from Pansy. Next to it is a pair of earrings from Daphne, neatly lined up with a pair of cufflinks from Theo. His hand hovers over them and he wonders if they are finally together just like their things are.

Over there is a hairbrush from Millie — she was a quiet girl and didn't speak much. He wishes he had spent some time speaking to her back then, but such is the arrogance and folly of youth.

Draco looks away quickly from Vince's mismatched socks. He took them because he thought it was such a classic Vince thing to do, now he wonders if it's just because Vince liked his socks to always be a different colour. He always did like colours — he had the most vibrant wardrobe out of all of them.

On the table are even things from the Golden Trio. From Weasley is a black chess piece. Draco didn't think it odd at the time, but come to think of it, who walks around with a knight piece in his pocket? Of the Potter, he had relieved from him, he found out much later on, a fifty pence piece after Yule one year.

Lastly is a novel he palmed from Granger called 'Mathilda' lying atop of a pile of Blaise's embarrassing secrets. Draco is not ashamed to admit he's read all of them. If he were braver, he might have asked for more. From Granger or from Blaise, he's not ready to admit which yet.

He thumbs the well-worn book cover. If he feels at all lonely, then he doesn't show it.

* * *

It's almost nightfall by the time Mitzy fetches him from the library for dinner.

He is about to argue that he doesn't need to eat but Mitzy threatens to stick herself with a red hot poker for failing to retrieve him as is her duty and he relents though not with a fair amount of grumbling. He doesn't really know if Mitzy ever follows through with her threats, but he's learned he'd rather not chance it.

Draco grouches at the blasted elf as she gambols happily ahead of him, a slight spring in her steps. Her demeanour is, in Draco's opinion, entirely too inappropriate for someone who was just about willing to perform self-torture.

His parents are already seated when he enters the dining hall. As one, they look up at him expectantly. Proper Lord and Lady Malfoy that they are, their food remains untouched as they await their wayward heir.

Draco feels more than sees his father's gaze on the bruises that are visible. He can predict almost to the second the disapproving look that follows but Draco just keeps his head down, pulls out his chair and sits.

Picking up his fork and spearing a lettuce, he doesn't bother to check if his parents have started. There is a long moment of silence, ostentatiously punctuated with the sounds of his chewing, before the clinking of cutlery is heard and dinner officially begins.

Lucius clears his throat loudly when Draco reaches out for the glass of wine. For a moment, he freezes, fingers twitching, though he recovers soon enough, wrapping long fingers around the stem of the glass.

"Haven't you had enough, Draco?" says Lucius, not pausing in the act of cutting meat. Once upon a time, Draco would have envied the way his father did everything with such grace, now he just struggles to hide the derisive snort that bubbles up.

"It's only my first glass, father," replies Draco immediately without batting an eye. He sips the wine and peers at his father lazily over the rim of the glass. Draco notes the subtle clenching of Lucius' jaw and smiles to himself.

"You're not a child anymore, Draco," says Lucius, his tone deceptively calm. "I've been indulgent for long enough. You will stay in tonight and tomorrow we will begin your lessons anew."

"I will not take over your roles,  _father_ ," Draco spits the last word out like it's a mouthful of venom. "I don't want it. I never wanted any of this!"

"There is no one else," says Lucius who has thus far managed to maintain the infuriating tone. "You will do this. Whether you like it or not."

The chair scraps the floor noisily with the force Draco pushes it backwards with. He throws his napkin down on to the table and stalks out. A similar scraping noise comes from behind him and his father's shout of "Cissa! Leave him be!" is heard, but Draco doesn't break his stride and continues towards the grounds where the apparition point is located.

"Draco!" He hears his mother say. "Draco, please! Wait!"

He has no intention of stopping but the way his mother's voice nearly breaks towards the end makes his steps falter. He can hear her walking quickly — pureblood ladies don't run if they can help it — and she is breathing a little too quickly. Draco slows and eventually comes to a halt, though he does not turn to face her.

A hand catches his and he involuntarily tightens his fingers around hers.

"Draco..." Narcissa says and Draco tenses, ready to be lectured on how difficult it has been for his father and how hard the mandatory house arrest has treated him, but Narcissa gently cups her hand around his jaw and his eyes shudders shut at the gesture.

He slowly opens his eyes when he feels his mother smearing something on his face.

The first thing he sees is the jar of ointment from his bedside, held in his mother's left hand, the other occupied with applying it liberally over his face. Her face is as impassive and expressionless as ever, but there's worry etched clearly into her blue eyes. He turns his gaze away from her.

They stand in silence as he allows his mother to heal him. The smell of her flowery perfume, of roses and spice, makes his nose itch, but the familiarity of it seeps into him and he feels his shoulders sag a little.

"Be careful out there, Draco," says Narcissa without preamble. He blinks at her in confusion and surprise.

"I would give you the world if I could, my son," she continues. "I wish you had remained my happy little child."

"I wish I could give that back to you," she says and Draco leans down and hugs his mother tightly before he could see the watery sheen in her eyes slip down her cheeks.

He is reluctant to let go, but eventually he does. Still, a spark of warmth spreads in him when he smells the faint perfume clinging to his clothes before apparating away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're not already aware this is a prequel to Flesh and Blood, which had an update yesterday.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flesh and Blood will be updated tomorrow.

Hermione wonders if she's the only one who's bothered by the loud ticking noise.

This being the place that it is, chances are likely that the others who come through here barely notice it. The room is probably usually filled with chatter or cathartic crying. Maybe she's an oddity, maybe she's the only one who sits here and stares out the window most of the time without saying or doing anything. It would explain why no one else seemed to have complained about it. As it is, the silence stretches long between them, and the clock ticks on.

The mother and child are here again today. Well, not in there, in purgatory, with her, but outside, beyond the window and in the sunlight. The weather has been beautiful of late, so unlike the usual gloomy London skies. This time the girl is on the swings, giggling wildly while she flails her little arms and urges her mother to go higher, higher. Her hair glints like gold on every swing upwards.

A tiny smile comes unbidden to Hermione. She smothers it quickly.

"Tell me about your parents," says Janet. Hermione exhales sharply and snaps her head towards the doctor, but the doctor is not scrutinizing her. Instead, she's gazing out the window, just like Hermione had been, moments before.

For a while they both watch the giggling golden girl.

A moment of panic flashes across the mother's face when the girl jumps off at the highest point. Hermione finds herself gasping as well as the girl sails through the air, but she lands safely on her two feet with an added little flourish befitting a gymnast, and Hermione sighs softly. She makes a sweeping bow as her mother applauds enthusiastically, relief evident on her face.

Hermione tears herself away from the happy scene.

"They're in Australia now," Hermione says, picking at an unravelled thread on her shirt. "It's... complicated."

Janet makes a humming sound, closely followed by the scribbling of pen on paper. "When was the last time you spoke to them?"

"I think the last time was when I was seventeen," Hermione replies. "I did... something that I couldn't take back. Now we don't speak anymore."

"Have you tried reaching out to them?" asks Janet.

"To them, I don't exist," says Hermione, the words coming out bitterer and more deprecating than she intended. She clamps her mouth shut like the action could force the words back in. Janet raises a perfectly plucked brow, but Hermione merely shakes her head and offers no further explanation.

"You'd be surprised at a parent's capacity to forgive. Especially when it comes to their own children," says Janet kindly. "Try writing a letter to them. You don't have to post it if you don't want to yet, but just write one."

"Do people find that helpful?" asks Hermione.

"Well, everybody's different. The key thing is to find what works for you," says Janet.

"Right," says Hermione. "I'll keep that in mind."

* * *

Hermione is deep in thought when Berenice knocks on her door. Her train of thought vanishes into thin air and she frowns at the interruption. After slaving over the matter for so long, she is finally getting somewhere. There may be a loophole she can exploit, and if that turns out to be fruitful then the mandatory monthly checks — oft humiliating — for werewolves will finally be a relic of the past.

If there is one thing Hermione can say the muggles have over the wizards — and there are many things that she can firmly say to be better, like writing equipment, for one — is their grasp of legalese. Compared to the sharks of Muggle Britain's ever expanding litigation culture, wizarding law is downright child's play.

It seems unethical, as do most things related to the field of law and regulations — the irony of it not being lost on her — but given the circumstances, she's not above using it to her advantage. The only thing that troubles Hermione about the situation is her inability to spot this weak link before. She considers the possibility that she may be losing her touch, but dismisses the thought as soon as it comes, putting it down instead to the various distractions that life inevitably has to offer.

Which is why Berenice's interruption seems incredibly ill-timed.

"Keep your hair on, guv'nor," says Berenice immediately upon sighting Hermione's scowl, raising her palms in a defensive gesture. "Don't shoot the messenger."

"What is it, Berenice?" asks Hermione, annoyance lacing the bite of her words.

"Is it any wonder that you go through three secretaries a month before I came into the picture?" says Berenice good-naturedly. Hermione would hex her but Berenice is right and she can't really afford to kill the only person so far who's been able to put up with her and do the job well.

Hermione settles for shooting her an irritated glare.

"Right, get on with it," says Berenice. "Miss Brown is here."

"Oh," says Hermione, glancing at the calendar hanging on the wall and blinks. "Let her in, please."

"It is what I do," says Berenice wryly before letting herself out, the door swinging shut behind her.

A tentative knock comes from the door.

"Come in," calls Hermione. "Hey Lavender."

"Hermione," says Lavender, a tight smile on her lips. They look at each other for a moment, Lavender still hovering at the doorway while Hermione remains where she is.

"Please, sit," says Hermione, breaking the awkwardness first. Lavender obliges, smoothing her skirt out a few times more than necessary as she positions herself, ramrod straight, in the chair.

Meanwhile, Hermione occupies herself with pulling out her drawers, pretending to search for the package even though she knows precisely where she has placed it. Top right drawer, behind the Murdoch files.

"Found it," Hermione says, unnecessarily. She affects a sheepish look that Lavender pretends not to notice, as is the polite thing to do.

Hermione places the package on the table and pushes it towards Lavender, the vials inside clinking together at the movement. Seven days' worth of them. Lavender takes them and puts them on her lap.

"Thank you," says Lavender sincerely.

"You know, you don't have to come to the office to get it," says Hermione. "I can just pass it to you at the Burrow."

"No, it's fine," says Lavender. "I have to do the checks anyway."

"It's mandatory," adds Lavender, almost as an afterthought. "But you know that already. I don't know why I'm telling you this." She smiles, a tiny, self-deprecating, flustered smile that colours her cheeks a rosy red.

Hermione nods, unconsciously fiddling with her pen. There is a long pause before Hermione speaks again.

"I'm sorry."

If it is even possible, Lavender straightens even further. Her spine looks like it might snap at how taut she stretches it.

"Not everything needs apologies, Hermione," says Lavender, all steel and ice. "And I don't want nor need your pity."

"It's not pity! I'm just - I'm just trying to help," says Hermione quickly.

"And I thank you for it! But there is no need to treat me like a victim that you're personally responsible for," says Lavender, voice hitching up slightly in volume. "You're not the one who turned me into this."

_\- Lavender twitching feebly, should have killed Greyback when she had the chance_  -

"Unlike what you or Ron may think, I'm not helpless," Lavender says, but then her voice breaks and her face softens, her posture slumping ever so slightly. She clutches the package so tightly that her knuckles turn white. "Please."

"I- I shouldn't have presumed," says Hermione softly, reaching out to grasp the other woman's hands.

Hermione breathes in relief when Lavender allows the contact.

"Who knew Ron could be such a mother hen?" jokes Lavender, raising tentative eyes at Hermione.

"You're welcomed at my flat if he starts nesting," replies Hermione, giving the other woman a reassuring pat on the hand.

Lavender chuckles weakly at that and Hermione responds in kind.

* * *

It is work, Hermione decides, that works for her. She'll bury herself in it, fight tooth and nail for her cause, perhaps even sleep in the office if she has to.

She's attempted the letter thing, not addressed to her parents, but to Lavender. Crumpled parchments surround her, strewn about haphazardly like someone has tipped a bin over her desk, full of false starts and crossed out sentences.

There are many things — so many — that Hermione wants to say to Lavender. They bubble in her, collecting like pus since the war — the guilt, the apologies, the incessant need to make amends, but most of all the anger that she has to give up Ron so he could go to  _her_  instead.

Ron is supposed to be hers. They could have been good together.

Now she'll never know, will she? Hermione Granger's needs must take a backseat yet again.

Hermione Granger the Brightest Witch of her Age, the war heroine, awarded the Order of Merlin, first class. Hermione Granger the pathetic ministry worker, the mudblood. Everything's changed, yet nothing has. Not really.

There are so many things she wants to say, wants to scream out on a mountaintop, but her pen stalls and the words refuse to come forth. So work it is.

Berenice has left hours ago, though not before chiding her for staying late yet again. As far as Hermione could tell, she's the only one left in the department, if not the entire Ministry. On second thought, she reflects, perhaps not, the Department of Mysteries tend to keep rather odd hours too.

Hermione's head swims with legal terms and she pinches the bridge of her nose to soothe away some of the ache. Constructing double meanings is harder than she expects and over the course of the evening she has developed a healthy respect for people who voluntarily do this for a living.

She slams the thick reference book shut. Without the gentle cushion of background noise, the sound bounces through the empty rooms, resonating eerily back to her. An involuntary shiver runs through her.

Even Hermione's fervent dedication to work has some limits. For instance, she draws the line at deathly quiet offices that are a death trap of dark nooks and crannies for the unsavoury to hide in.

The Ministry, in Hermione's opinion, is one of the most awfully designed places she's ever been in, especially considering this is supposed to be the bastion of wizarding society. Shoddy architecture will be — was, she entertains — their downfall.

The groaning of pipes echoing menacingly through the halls has her springing out of her seat and hastily packing up her things.

Hermione is in the midst of putting up the third layer of wards — some call it paranoia, she calls it survival instinct — on her office when a loud crash sounds from somewhere in her vicinity, causing her to jump and appropriate a death grip on her wand. No Expelliarmus was going to disarm the thing from her.

"Hello?" Hermione says before cringing. Merlin, she doesn't know if it's a tragedy or a comedy to have her perish in the same manner characters in films do.

There is no response, naturally. Hermione can't tell if it's a good thing or a bad thing.

"I'm sorry, I only meant to have a look."

The jinx comes out from Hermione's wand quicker than her unknown assailant can finish the sentence. A flock of yellow and very, very angry canaries come speeding, ready to peck and claw, towards what she can see is a very pale man dressed in very dark robes.

Trembles erupt all over her. The man had been so silent till he exposed himself. She struggles to see among the puffs of yellow for the tell-tale bone white of a mask.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! It was just a book! It slipped, I swear!" screams the man as he fights valiantly to protect his eyes and nose from the vicious birds.

"Who are you?!" Hermione roars. "WHO?!"

It occurs to Hermione, too late, that the man might be an innocent. He may even be one of them from Mysteries, though what an Unspeakable might be doing, skulking about in a different department in the middle of night is suspect all in itself.

A picture of herself being ambushed in her office comes to her and the canaries increased the frequency and violence of their attack.

"Mstislav!" he strangles out, now nearly reduced to a kneeling ball. "Slava!"

Slava? Hermione blinks.

"I've been trying to see you for months!" he screams, though his words have been muffled by the robes that he's looped over his head. "But your secretary keeps sending me to Robbins!"

"How do I know you are who you say you are?" says Hermione, eyes narrowed.

"You don't!" pleads the man. "You've refused to see me since I started requesting it! You can't possibly know me!"

Hermione sighs, conceding to the irrefutable logic. She mutters a finite, but keeps her wand trained on the quivering mass. Slowly, the mass unwound, a couple of limbs emerge into something humanoid shape.

"No more birds?" he asks cautiously, voice hoarse and near breaking.

"For now," answers Hermione. The man nods timidly, as if resigned.

"Why are you here?" questions Hermione.

"I've been trying to see you," he says. He still hasn't gotten up from the floor, and the height difference unsettles Hermione. She pulls out a chair and sits on it primly, though her wand never once wavered.

"At this god forsaken hour?" she asks incredulously.

"I keep odd hours. And you have a bit of a reputation of being obsessed with your work," he shrugs like it's the natural conclusion to come to someone's office in the dead of the night. Hermione looks at the strange man with a bewildered expression. "Though this is the first night I've actually seen you here." Nothing in his tone suggests that it is meant as an insult, but Hermione scowls anyway.

He finally picks himself up from the floor, knees clicking in the process which has Hermione wincing in sympathy. As he rises and rises and rises, Hermione can't help but stare up the length of his body. He has to be at least a head above Harry. How did this man managed to move so quietly? Even as he stands, there is barely any rustling from his robes which seems like a physical impossibility.

Slava gingerly waves at a chair to which Hermione nods and he pulls out one — noiselessly! — and sinks down onto it. Thankfully, he slumps and that brings him to her eye level.

"I'm sorry, Mr Slava, but I don't see how I can help you," Hermione begins — the impromptu speech coming easy to her. "It's not my jurisdiction for one and as you mentioned, I'm obsessed with my work — my existing work. I simply don't have room for more."

"Your work with the werewolves is precisely why I need you and not Robbins," he says. He runs his hand through his sandy brown hair, agitated.

"I assure you, Mr Robbins is perfectly competent at his job," says Hermione.

"You don't understand. He's making things worse," his words come fast and flustered, like it's imperative for her to know how 'worse' it is.

Hermione frowns; surely Gawain is more than capable of dealing with rogue vampires? Hasn't he just passed a regulation that requires vampires to apply for hunting licences? She didn't really pay attention to the other going ons in the office, but his reasoning seemed sound and the terms and conditions looked sensible.

She racks her brain for any reports of vampiric outbreaks or infestations but draws a blank.

"I'm sorry, Mr Slava, but unless the Department feels that he's done a terrible job, I cannot just take over, even if I wanted to," Hermione says, as placating and patiently as she can muster.

"But-" Slava begins.

"I'm sorry," Hermione interjects before he can protest further. He slumps further into himself, defeat in his hazel eyes.

Hermione stays long enough, at least, to escort him out to the apparition point. She then returns to secure her office once more and gather her things before taking the Ministry floo home.

As she curls up in bed with a purring armful of Crookshanks, idly scratching at the fur between his ears, Hermione sleepily recalls the night she has had. Her eyes fluttering shut, she wonders when exactly Slava had the chance to heal himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After tomorrow's update I won't be updating for a few weeks as I'm leaving overseas to further my studies and I'll be taking the time to get myself settled and what not. Do not worry, I will be back, I'm a chapter ahead at this point and I'll be taking the time to write up more chapters even if I'm not posting them up yet.
> 
> As always, be kind to authors. Leave reviews. Even a simple "I like it!" is enough to brighten an author's day.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flesh and Blood will be updated tomorrow.

To any onlooker, it will seem that the Lady Malfoy is merely sitting there, demure as always, and having a pleasant and perfectly civil conversation with her lord husband. The aforementioned husband, the notorious Lucius Malfoy, knows better, however. He should hope so, considering the years that they've been married.

At the moment they are having afternoon tea. Narcissa is buttering one half of her scone and Lucius is stirring the fifth sugar cube into his tea. He usually doesn't take more than two, but he's lost count somewhere in between keeping a wary eye on his wife and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"It has been rather quiet lately, don't you think?" says Narcissa.

Ah, thinks Lucius, so this is how it'll go.

"Has it? I haven't really noticed, my love," replies Lucius, setting aside the teaspoon to pick up the delicate bone china. He realises his mistake at the first swallow of the beverage but refuses to allow the mask of indifference to slip from his face.

"Noticing things has never been your strong suit," assents Narcissa as she takes an elegant bite out of her scone.

"I suppose not," says Lucius as he makes a show of pouring milk into the already ruined tea. "Do enlighten me, what grand event have I missed lately?"

"Don't be obtuse, Lucius," says Narcissa primly. "It doesn't become you."

"I'm afraid I don't follow, my love," says Lucius, placing the cup aside after another sip and picking up a slice of toast. Opposite him, Narcissa has returned the scone to her plate and has folded her hands onto her lap. He waits.

"What will it take for you to set aside your pride for the sake of this family?" asks Narcissa quietly. She is averting her eyes elsewhere, like he's not even worthy of her gaze. Inexplicable rage surges through Lucius.

"Everything I've done, I did for this family," says Lucius calmly in the way of someone maintaining a tight control on the emotions simmering beneath the surface.

"That's funny," says Narcissa, finally raising a defiant eye to him, though everything else about her remains poised and put together. As wrong as the timing is, a spike of pleasure shoots towards Lucius' groin and he has to shift to accommodate the sudden tightness in his trousers. "Your definition of family greatly differs from mine."

"Don't you dare, Cissa!" growls Lucius. Aroused or not, a Malfoy doesn't back down from what he thinks is his right. Unfortunately, the same could be said about Malfoys that married into the family.

Narcissa raises a perfectly plucked brow. Incredulity and disgust coupled with the slightest bit of desire flashes through her eyes. He's always told her that she perfectly fits the adage about the eyes being the window to the soul, though it is possible that it is only obvious to those who know her well.

"Do not test me, Luci," says Narcissa, giving Lucius a tantalising glimpse of the woman that lied to the face of the Dark Lord. The persistent throbbing in his pants is almost painful. Lucius has to bite back a groan.

"You will not drive my son away from me, Lucius," she says before stalking out of the room, all lithe limbs and graceful movements.

It takes Lucius a moment of deliberation, all the while maintaining a white-knuckled grip on the arm of his chair, till he makes his decision and moves to follow the scent trail left behind by his wife.

* * *

Miles away, in the heart of Diagon Alley, impervious to his parent's tussle in the afternoon back in the Manor, Draco Malfoy contemplates his choice of wardrobe for the night.

After a week of spending his nights in the pubs of Muggle London, he's received quite a few odd looks and snickers. Initially, he'd been able to ignore them and kept to his own miserable drinking, but going through seven nights worth of snide, loudly whispered remarks is quite enough to grate on a bloke's nerves. The robes, it seems, have got to go.

And since Draco isn't too sure if the clothes that he normally wears under his robes would suffice, he's decided to 'borrow' some of Tom's clothes. His reasoning being that since the pub is practically the gateway to the muggle world, surely Tom should own some form of muggle clothing.

His sneaking around pays off when he finds a stash in the drawers of Tom's room. Draco snatches up a bunch of them and beats a hasty retreat to his own room to examine his haul.

Draco picks up an odd looking muggle shirt with rather short sleeves and eyes it critically. The material is strange and he has absolutely no intention of wearing it, especially not with that length of sleeve. In fact, the only reason he's taken it is because he's seen it being worn in the muggle pubs and his curiosity dictates that he examines one up close for posterity's sake. So far, he's not impressed.

Draco sniffs disdainfully and replaces it at the bottom of the pile.

In the end, he settles on an ensemble that's almost similar to what he usually wears — it crosses his mind that he could just use his own clothes, but he's keen to wear something that has been freshly laundered instead of merely scourgified.

Draco spares himself a quick glance in the floor length mirror and after a few adjustments — Merlin forbid Tom notices and gets the idea that the Malfoys have fallen so low — deems himself ready. These days he prefers to keep any business he has with mirrors to the bare minimum. Vanity, for him, is a luxury of the past.

His feet barely touch the landing before Tom is calling him. Draco surreptitiously smooths down his shirt and lifts a bored, haughty eyebrow at the other man. Said man returned a grin that Draco can only describe as 'obnoxiously cheerful' and beckons Draco over.

"Nice shirt," says Tom. "I see you're a man with good taste."

Draco merely nods his thanks at the man, unable to keep his lips from twisting into a crooked smile. He drums his fingers against the bar counter and wait for Tom to get to the point.

"You uh... going out tonight?" asks Tom while inclining his head towards the exit that leads to the muggle world. Draco raises an eyebrow, stance shifting subtly straighter.

"Is there a problem?" says Draco tonelessly.

"No, no," says Tom, a little too vehemently. "Not in that way."

"I can't say I know what you mean, Tom," says Draco in a tone dripping with ice. If the man wants to dish it then Draco is going to make sure that he is forced to say whatever his accusations are out loud.

"The muggle world is not..." Tom begins but trails off when his words seem to fail him. He tries again. "There have been incidents. Aurors get called, several people get obliviated. It's messy business."

"What are you implying, Tom?" says Draco stiffly.

"Nothing that hasn't happened before in the past," Tom shoots back. "Especially with those who held your... past beliefs."

"I thank you to keep your opinion about matters that you know nothing about to yourself," Draco clenches out between gritted teeth.

"Look, Draco, I have nothing against you," says Tom, lightly shaking his head. "But the post-war world — it's not kind to people who were on the wrong side of the conflict."

Draco's head snaps sharply to the side, almost like he's been struck. He blinks rapidly, overcome by a sudden feeling of vertigo as he studiously avoids looking directly at Tom.

"Some people don't believe in second chances," says Tom.

"Which one are you?" asks Draco softly.

"I do," says Tom succinctly. Draco smiles a smile tinged with just the tiniest bit of self-deprecation and nods.

"Where did you even get muggle money from anyway?" asks Tom, eyes narrowed dubiously. Before Draco could answer him, he fires off with, "You are aware that muggles have their own currency right?"

Draco's brows furrow in annoyance.

"I'm not completely ignorant, Tom. Gringott's goblins can be very accommodating to the right sort," says Draco, just stopping short of huffing. He pointedly ignores the rude snort that comes out of Tom.

"Besides, isn't it a little late to ask that? I've been out there every night for a week now," continues Draco. Tom raises an eyebrow in a perfect imitation of Draco's earlier expression.

"I'm not about to speculate what the Malfoy heir gets up to out there in the big, bad world," says Tom in the most offended, snobbiest voice he can muster. It is, Draco has to admit, exactly like how most purebloods talk on a regular basis.

"Nothing exciting, I assure you," Draco chuckles. Tom's expression softens into something Draco once wished he could see on his father's face.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," says Tom, giving Draco a dismissive wave as Draco pushes himself off the counter.

"Yeah," replies Draco. Before he exits the Leaky Cauldron, he pauses, hand in mid-push against the door and says, just loud enough for Tom to hear, "Thank you."

* * *

On the menu tonight is an exquisite bottle of 18 year old Glenlivet, single malt scotch. It's no Ogden's, but what it lacks in the fiery burn down his throat it more than makes up with the delicate spice and smoky aftertaste. Draco figures that if he's going to get blinding drunk anyway, he might as well enjoy the process.

If there's one thing the muggles know — even Draco can't deny, if grudgingly — it's their alcohol.

There are only two things that wizards seem to drink and those are firewhiskey and butterbeer, or rather firewhiskey and vodka if one originated from the frozen Slavic wastelands. Fourth year for the Slytherins was basically a year of blurred nights, drunken duelling and more than one occasion of awkward morning afters.

The vodka the Durmstrang boys supplied them with was strong enough to stand spoons in and is liable to melt said spoons if left in for too long. The Bulgarians laughed themselves silly when told the English didn't in fact classify butterbeer as water.

Draco downs another finger of scotch to drown out the unwanted memories of his school years.

He's chasing the bottom of the bottle with the sort of dogged determination that a man who's trying to forget loses himself in so he barely notices that the high chair beside him is no longer vacant.

"Cor, you're a fancy sort, aren't you," says a voice to his right and Draco blinks blearily several times in that general direction before he is able to focus on the speaker.

He's not too drunk yet to be unable to appreciate the pair of legs that seem to go on for days that's currently situated perilously close to his knee. However, he is sloshed enough to wonder why a pair of legs seem to be talking to him.

A pair of fingers snapping impatiently in front of Draco brings him jerking away from the lovely sight on to a pair of cerulean blue eyes on a face framed by brunette ringlets.

The woman is no Daphne Greengrass, but, Draco supposes, there are worse things to look at. Besides, the scotch whispering conspiratorially in his ear is making it difficult for him to concentrate on any solid lines of thought.

"Guilty as charged," Draco mumbles and pours himself another finger, or five, of the Glenlivet. The woman seems to make a tsking sort of noise but Draco can't be sure.

"What's a bloke like you doing, drinking alone, anyhow?" she asks. Draco makes a non-committal grunt and leaves it at that.

"Problems with the missus?" she persists. Draco can only scoff derisively at the very notion of it.

"Well, I can't imagine what else posh folks have got to worry about," she says with a dismissive shrug. Draco narrows his eyes at her.

"You have no idea," he drawls in poorly concealed disdain.

"Sure," she replies shortly, bored already with the topic. Unwilling to continue with the inane conversation, Draco turns his attention back to the matter at hand and swirls the scotch before sipping it slowly.

"Hey!" she perks suddenly and two small hands are tugging the glass away from him and his lips. Surprised by the sudden change, he offers no resistance, not even when she pulls both the glass and bottle far out of his reach. It takes him a second too long to realise what she's done.

"Let's play twenty questions!" she announces. When he makes to lunge across the table, she deftly steps into his path, hiding them behind her and effectively blocking his access.

"Play and I'll return them to you," she says coyly and sets the two items on her side of the table, while patting his vacated seat invitingly.

Ignoring her, Draco wordlessly summons the stolen things back to him without thinking.

He is still sneering superiorly at having one-upped the muggle when the realisation slowly seeps in through the drunken haze and his sneer gradually changes into one of horror. Her blue eyes are wide and Draco is frantically racing through his mind for explanations, curses or hexes that could possibly fix this colossal fuck up.

His obliviating skills are shaky, at best he'll end up giving her some unknown brain damage, at worse he'll outright kill her. He'll have to go on the run, leave his parents behind. This will be the rise of the muggle witch hunts once again and wizarding society will be wiped out, all thanks to one Draco Malfoy, worthless Death Eater.

Tom's words come floating back, taunting him.

"Are you a magician?!" she exclaims. Draco blinks, convinced he just imagined the excitement in her tone. "That was mental! How did you do that?!"

"I- I-" Draco flounders.

"Do you have a thingymajig, what do they call it, the magic stick?" she asks. Unexpectedly, she squeals without even waiting for an answer and Draco thinks that perhaps he did not imagine her reaction earlier.

"Are you like David Copperfield? Can you make things disappear too?" Her questions come spilling without pause. Draco doesn't think that she's taken a breath yet.

Draco nods dumbly and she squeals again.

"Oooh, you must tell me how you do your tricks," she says and those cerulean blue eyes are shining hopefully at him.

Draco can't remember the last time a woman looked at him like that, like he's a person, much less an  _interesting_  person, and not just scum that's no better than the dirt beneath her shoes. That she's a muggle matters so little.

"I... can't?" Draco says, his statement lilting up towards the end like a question. That seemed to be the right thing to say as she nods, resigned but not exactly disappointed at his response.

"Right, I forget. A magician never reveals his tricks," she says like it's the most natural thing in the world. "So, what's the magic word? Abracadabra? Will you show me more?"

"Your pronunciation is off," Draco says, not really registering what he just said as his head swims from all the excitement. "You might want to be careful who you say that to."

He flinches violently when what he said does sink in, but she doesn't seem to notice and he's not about to draw further attention to it. She rattles on about magicians and stage shows and Draco can do nothing but be swept along in her bubbly enthusiasm. Eventually, he makes the connection that magic to muggles is some sort of entertainment and not to be taken seriously.

At least, he ventures, he's not about to be the harbinger of destruction this time.

When she offers to buy him drinks in exchange for more 'tricks', he finds himself agreeing to the arrangement. The scotch and subsequent shots — wizards really need to get in on this tequila thing — help to dull the blaring alarm in his head that insists on telling him that this is a bad idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm back! My upload timing is going to be a little off now since I've moved from one timezone, where I'm ahead of most of the world, to another, vastly different one, where I'm behind most of the world. As of now, it's 2am where I am at, so I'm uploading this for the benefit of anybody who's going to be waking up in the next few hours. This week, since I was gone for a while, I've uploaded the chapter early in the week, but the following chapters will be updated in my usual Friday/Saturday/Sunday slots. This is by no means a guarantee that I'll be updating every week, but I will try. Good news is, I am ahead by a couple of chapters (do note that this is in terms of BOTH fics, so it means four chapters at least all in all).
> 
> So, good reading and as always, be kind to authors. Leave us a review, even a simple 'I like it!' will brighten any author's day.
> 
> P/s: I'm pimping out one of my older fics, a Dramione one-shot titled Strings on Us. It's very dear to my heart and I'd love it if more people would read that and leave their thoughts on it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flesh and Blood was updated yesterday.

Hermione doesn't recognize the tawny, brown owl that stares indignantly up at her from outside her closed window. It raises a parchment held claw and taps the window impatiently. When that doesn't move Hermione quick enough for its liking, It bobs for a bit, beak working, but the glass is thick enough that Hermione isn't able to hear the, what she is sure is disgruntled, hooting.

It would have been cute if Hermione was certain the owl wouldn't peck her at the first chance it gets.

She unlatches the window and grunting, pushes the window up enough so that the owl can hop through then immediately moves as far away from the creature as possible. From the table, Crookshanks hisses at it. The brown fluff instantly turns towards the orange cat and bares a talon full of sharpened claws. Undaunted, Crookshanks hisses at it again and jumps down from the table, having seemingly deemed the owl unworthy of his attention any longer and stalks from the room, tail held high in the air.

Entertainment gone, the owl turns to Hermione and hoots. Hermione points at the top of the fridge where the bowl of owl treats is located and the owl promptly drops the rolled parchment and takes flight towards it, attention sufficiently diverted for now.

Unfurling the missive, Hermione's eyes are immediately drawn to the design at the top of the parchment. The letterhead bears the unmistakable logo of the Holyhead Harpies.

_Hermione,_

_It's a Saturday, surely you're not working today? You have no excuse. Come and see me._

_I miss you._

_G.W._

_P/s: Don't mind Fitzwilliam, he's always grumpy._

It's funny, Hermione thinks, the people you take for granted when you have them. Unbidden, her gaze lands at the overturned photo frame on her mantle. In it is a muggle photo — the only one she allowed herself to keep. One day, she will find the courage to look upon it again.

Her curls bounce wildly as she shakes her head to clear her thoughts.

Hermione has heard that the Harpies are back in England for the season, but you wouldn't know it just from looking at the Weasley's weekly dinner table. Even if it is a weekday, Hermione will, in a rare show of defiance against her personal rigid rules, drop everything to see Ginny. She has no intention of letting the youngest Weasley slip away too.

"Fitzwilliam," Hermione calls out after penning a quick reply.

The owl reluctantly looks up from his mid-devouring of Hermione's treat bowl and blinks mulishly at her. If it had a human face, it'd be downright surly. Nonetheless, he hops over to Hermione when she calls him a second time and only gives her one hard nip on the index finger before taking off, carrying the reply with him.

* * *

The cafe that Ginny picks is in the heart of Muggle London. Hermione can't say that she is surprised. For all of Arthur Weasley's enthusiasm about all things muggle, trips to Muggle London are practically unheard of. It's hard to say which side of the family is more ashamed of the other, the ones living on the magical end beyond the Leaky Cauldron or the squib accountant.

It is packed, even for a Saturday afternoon. That in itself, isn't surprising, as the place is famous for being ridiculously difficult to get a reservation for — the waiting list is rumoured to be six months long, at least. Slap a poncy French name on, attach a celebrity chef that has appeared on the telly before and one can reasonably expect this sort of thing to happen.

In the sea of faces, Ginny isn't difficult to find. Nobody else has quite got that exact shade of red hair.

"Who did you have to Imperius to get a table here?" Hermione asks, pulling out her chair and intercepting a menu from a harried passing waitress.

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you," quips Ginny as she blows elegantly on a too hot tea.

"That would be tremendously ambitious of you," replies Hermione without missing a beat. The two friends look at each other for a moment then burst out in girlish giggles.

"How's life as a Harpy?" asks Hermione after they've both petered out from the giggles.

"Oh, you know. Getting swarmed everywhere, having to beat rabid fans off my doorstep. Little girls come up to me and tell me they want to be me one day. It's nice," Ginny says, smiling a little. "It's nice to be known for... something else."

Ginny casts her eyes downwards and sips her tea absently, the miniscule smile having faded away. Hermione, who doesn't yet have the luxury of a cup of tea to occupy herself with, starts picking at the edge of the menu.

"Of course," says Ginny, brightening up. "It's also nice to not be recognised for a change," she says and sweeps an arm out in gesture at her surroundings.

"I can relate," says Hermione, abruptly letting go of the menu with an audible thwack and returns Ginny's brilliant smile with one of her own — it doesn't even feel forced. Their conversation starts to flow more freely after that.

It is only later, after the cucumber sandwiches have been eaten and the scones buttered up and gobbled down does Hermione make an unintentional — colossal — mistake.

They were laughing about something Dean and Seamus had done in school and it had something to do with the twins and Ron and Hermione had thoughtlessly blurted out, "You should come back for dinner at the Burrow one night. Ron'd love to see you and Molly misses you," that the grin suddenly drops from Ginny's face and the handle of her teacup mysteriously snaps off.

"Shit," Hermione says, staring at the broken cup and reaching forward to pull Ginny's hand to her to inspect her for wounds. Ginny doesn't give her the chance however, and immediately retrieves her hand from Hermione's grasp. Hermione blinks up at her in undisguised shock.

"Have you straightened out that picture frame yet?" Ginny says viciously and Hermione stills. Slowly, she pulls her arms back from where they were across the table and straightens stiffly. Regret flashes through Ginny's eyes.

"I'm sorry," Ginny mumbles. "That was a low blow."

Numbly, Hermione nods. "I'm... sorry, too."

"But you understand, don't you?" says Ginny. There is no desperation in her voice, but the dead monotone is enough to make Hermione feel ill. "One day, I'll be able to go back. Just... not right now."

"Not when Fred... And George. Percy too," says Ginny. "He still hasn't come back, has he?"

Mutely, Hermione shakes her head. Ginny nods once, not in disappointment — there is no more room for that — but in understanding, in defeat and in resignation.

"There're too many empty chairs at the table," says Ginny, hugging herself. Ginny is a grown woman — they both are — but she looks so childlike then that Hermione doesn't know what to do with herself.

"And sometimes, just sometimes, I still hear him... in my head..." Ginny says, almost wistfully. Hermione's eyes widen in confusion but Ginny looks gone, like she's miles away somewhere in her head and Hermione doesn't think she can bring her back.

"Hey, Hermione," says Ginny suddenly and Hermione snaps to attention. "Can you do me a favour?"

Anything. Hermione will do anything. So she tells her that.

* * *

The only time Hermione ever sees George so alive is when he's at the shop. Hell, normally she doesn't even see him at all.

For a time, she just watches him, bustling about and laughing like he used to as he serves his customers and recommends the best Weasley prank for every occasion under the sun. Unwilling — unable — to disturb him, she lets him go on until the last bell has rung and the final customers have left happily with their purchases.

"Should someone like the Head Girl be in a place like this?" says George with a slight teasing lilt. Hermione can appreciate at least, the fact that he makes it a point to announce his presence and remain at all times in her line of sight. The past George wouldn't have let a golden opportunity like that go, especially not when she's distracted.

"Oh come off it, you know as well as I that I never got the position," grouses Hermione, pouting a little, for effect.

"And  _you_  know as well as I that it would have been you," says George, waving a hand around dismissively as he makes his way back to the counter, gesturing at Hermione to follow. "Who else is there?"

"Tracey Davis was a pretty good student," says Hermione offhandedly. She'd always seen the girl in the library and she was never too far behind Hermione in marks.

George snorts derisively, conveying his exact opinion on a snake getting the Head position. Hermione frowns, thinking, not for the last time, that the Sorting is done far too early. But, she didn't come here to argue and so let the matter slide.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" says George, dialling up the charm again. Hermione reaches into her pocket and pulls out a sealed envelope, placing it on the counter and smoothing it out before sliding it across to him. It hits his arm but he makes no move to touch it.

"It's from Ginny," answers Hermione to his unspoken question.

"And how is my dear sister?" George asks in such an odd manner that Hermione can't quite discern if his questioning is genuine.

"She's fine," says Hermione. "Likes what she's doing."

"That's good," says George and for the briefest of moment, Hermione swears she can see a smile grace his features. He pushes the letter in front of him and scrutinizes it.

"She couldn't just send it?" asks George, eyeing the envelope warily. Hermione grins, recalling how Ginny had always been the one who could outsmart the twins.

"She wanted to make sure you got it," says Hermione. "Thus, here I am."

Gingerly, George breaks the seal. As soon as he lifts the flap, he jumps a foot back and cowers with his arms shielding his head. It's a tad too theatrical, Hermione thinks, though she keeps that opinion to herself.

When nothing explodes or jumps out or spews water on him, George relaxes, giving Hermione a silly grin before pulling out the letter and reading its contents. Hermione isn't privy to the letter and what it says, but even if she is, she wouldn't have thought much about it. It is why Hermione isn't prepared.

With no warning, George lets out a terrifying roar, sounding far too much like a wounded beast and sweeps the counter with one mighty gesture. Vials are knocked down and roll to the floor, shattering on impact. Parchments go flying and from somewhere, colourful sparks are being emitted.

Hermione hastily jerks back as George pulls out his wand and roars a spell Hermione doesn't recognise. The letter floats in mid-air for a second, stretched taut as if a puppet master is pulling on all four corners in the opposite directions, and then it explodes.

Pieces of the letter shower down like confetti, Hermione manages to glimpse one word amongst the chaos: 'Angelina'.

"Good for me?!" bellows George. "She thinks it'll be good for me?!"

George's eyes are wild and crazed, darting back and forth, looking at invisible enemies. Hermione takes a wide step back, and then another as George makes another wild swing at the counter.

"What is she thinking, pawning people off like they're some kind of used garbage?!" hollers George and grips the counter like he's about to flip it. Thankfully, the counter holds.

"George... George, I'm sure Ginny means well," Hermione pleads, trying — trying so hard — to placate.

- _"Not my daughter, you bitch!" - green light - dead_  -

"Well?! Don't talk to me about well!" yells George. "You,  _she_ , has no idea how it feels like to be cut in  _half_. And she thinks she can compensate with my  _dead_  brother's girlfriend?!"

"No. 'Well' is not made for people like me," screams George as another roar of anguish rips through him and he claws at his chest like something is burning in him.

"George! Please! He is her brother too!" yells Hermione. Her cheeks are wet and she shouldn't be raising her voice, but this isn't how it should go. This isn't how things should be.

"Get out!" howls George. "Get out! Get out! GET OUT!" And flee, Hermione does.

* * *

George's red face, furious and ugly, pursues her relentlessly. Before she realises it, she's standing in the Ministry floo, unconsciously retreating to a place where everything makes sense.

Hermione runs up the stairs, unable to wait around for the lift — the need to be in her office is great and overwhelming. She takes them three at a time, ignoring the way her thighs tremble from the over-exertion, disregarding the way her lungs burn.

The gods, however, fickle as they are, have not seen fit to let her night get any better.

The main office door, when she reaches it, opens only half way and refuses to budge anymore. When she peeks around the corner of the door, the file cabinet has been moved from its usual spot to where it is now, blocking half of the door. The rest of the department's office area, from what she can view from her vantage point, is not faring any better.

Books are splayed open, papers strewn everywhere and drawers pulled out with its contents spilled all over the floor. They've been ransacked.

Hermione retreats slightly and quietly casts a muffliato on herself, just in case, before squeezing her way through the opening into the crime scene. Even with the charm on, she tip toes and tries to make as little sound as possible as she scouts out the area, looking for any signs that the intruder may still be in there.

Moments later, she is grateful to have had the presence of mind to cast the charm.

The culprit is standing in front of Gawain's office, trying it seems, to dismantle his wards. Hermione hopes Gawain has taken her suggestion and has cast the recommended three layers of wards on his office.

Hermione carefully reaches into her pocket, making note to bribe a holster way from Harry next time, and starts to whisper, "Oppug-"

In the blink of an eye, the person is gone. Hermione's eyes widen in alarm and her hands start to shake.

"Fool me once, shame on you," whispers a voice into her ear. "Fool me twice, shame on me."

Hermione whirls around to face her attacker, a severing jinx on the tip of her tongue. It hits its mark. The figure staggers back and clutches its shoulder. Hermione tries to get a good look of the culprit's face, but somehow all she can register is a blur, like she's viewing it through a camera lens and there's a permanent smudge over it. The robes the figure wears is black, but Hermione can see a darker patch blossoming from around the shoulder where he clutched at.

"I didn't want to do this, but you've forced my hand," it says. Hermione tightens her hold around her wand and drops into a defensive stance.

"Filipen-" screams Hermione as the figure says, "Shhh..."

Hermione scrabbles at her throat when no sound comes out. She hesitates for only a split second before she directs a non-verbal stunning jinx at it. It comes out weak, as the figure barely shrugs it off, and Hermione curses her lack of practice.

The figure lunges forward and Hermione makes to dodge to the left but a sudden lethargy overcomes her limbs and she stumbles, almost sagging to the floor. A voice in her head is whispering at her, enticing her to go to sleep. There will be no nightmares, it says, only dreams — sweet, wonderful dreams of her and her parents vacationing in Australia. Isn't that lovely? Isn't that nice? In there, there will be no twitching bodies, no glassy eyes, only little girls playing happily in the sun while a doting mother watches on.

Hermione feels her eyes droop. It'd be so easy. So easy to just... give in. Innocence can be regained.

Something snaps in her and through sheer force of will, she forces herself to get up and move away; anywhere, so long as it's far from the honeyed lies. She pushes herself on and on, but soon she's crawling on the floor and the whispering is loud — unnatural — in her mind, yet so soothing. Fantasy it may be, but would it hurt to have just a little taste of it?

Her eyes droop again and she struggles to keep it open. Her lids flutter but another wave of compulsion sweeps over her and she'd do anything just to get away from that loud siren song in her head, even if it means she has to sleep.

"Shhh..." That, she knows, is whispered right into her ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, be kind to authors. Know that we don't get any compensation for doing this other than reviews. It does warm our cold, black hearts to see that someone likes our works. Even a simple "I like it!" will brighten any author's day.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flesh and Blood was updated yesterday.

The Leaky Cauldron is no longer what it used to be. It has never been a grand establishment, that is true, but it certainly has seen better times. Narcissa remembers a time when it was warm and cosy with an ever present lively, merry, atmosphere as opposed to the dingy, rundown and drafty mess that it is now.

She supposes that a Death Eater's touch would do that. After all, Florean Fortescue's did lose that special thing that made their ice cream that much better than all others following the... unfortunate passing of Fortescue himself.

Still, the butterbeer is warm and Tom is friendly as ever and that will suffice, for now.

Narcissa sips the beverage delicately and signals Tom over. Tom puts down the mug that he's been wiping and flipping the cloth over his shoulder, ambles over to Narcissa.

"What can I do you for?" asks Tom.

"I have a request, Tom," says Narcissa, putting her mug down neatly on the coaster and folding her hands together on her lap.

"Sure. What is it?"

"I'd like to pay," says Narcissa. Tom opens his mouth, about to answer, then pauses.

"For everything?" Tom asks, after a while. Narcissa allows a tiny smile to grace her lips.

"Everything," she agrees. "Whatever is fair." Tom pauses again, brows scrunching.

"I don't think I should- " he starts to say but stops mid-sentence when Narcissa holds up a dainty, glove clad hand.

"You have been kind when others would have been cruel," she says. "Think of it as a gift. Nothing more, nothing less."

"I... Don't know what to say," says Tom, ducking his head down.

"I imagine the norm is to say 'thank you'," says Narcissa, not unkindly.

"I imagine it is," Tom chuckles. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, Tom," says Narcissa, looking about the place. "I had fond memories here. It'll be nice to see it restored." Tom hums in approval and joins Narcissa in quietly gazing about.

A bell rings, signalling someone entering the premise. Tom casts a sideway glance at the newcomer and gives Narcissa a nod. "That's my cue to go," says Tom, turning to attend to his duties. But just before he walks off, he stops and without turning back, says, "Take care, Cissa."

"You too, Tom," replies Narcissa quietly.

"Mother?" says a voice, and Narcissa straightens her spine further and pivots to face her son.

"Hello, Draco," she says to the baffled look on Draco's face, bearing no surprise to see him standing by the muggle entrance of the pub.

"What are you doing here, mother?" asks Draco. Narcissa raises an eyebrow in a manner that suggests her son isn't quite as smart as she'd been led to believe and raises her mug of butterbeer.

"Having a drink, Draco," she says and takes a dainty sip.

"I can see that," Draco says, irritated. "What are you doing  _here_ , having a drink?"

"Surely you don't think your whereabouts are concealed from me?" says Narcissa, a slight reprimand to her tone. "The birds have eyes and the walls have ears. From the way you go about, it's like you're not even trying."

"I wasn't  _exactly_  trying," Draco mumbles, if a little petulantly.

"Besides," Narcissa continues like he hasn't spoken. "I worry." At that quiet admission, Draco's face falls momentarily and he goes silent, snapping his mouth shut. He walks towards his mother, pulls out the stool next to her and plops himself down on it. If she notices the pungent musk of an unknown perfume wafting from him, she declines to comment.

"You don't have to worry about me, Mother," he says softly, placing his elbows flat on the counter and linking his fingers together like he's about to say a prayer.

"As you said, I'm a mother," Narcissa says. "It's in our nature." Draco snorts, earning a light slap on the arm from Narcissa.

"And how's Father doing?" asks Draco, though his tone suggests he's not as enthusiastic at the matter as he should be.

"He's a stubborn old fool," she says, giving a dismissive wave. "He tries, but much like you, his pride tends to get in the way of things."

"Perhaps... He's not wrong. I- I haven't been the best son," says Draco, fidgeting uncomfortably on the stool. "Mother, last night, I... If father knew..."

"Then there's no reason for him to know," says Narcissa casually. Draco snaps his head towards his mother and blinks rapidly. Narcissa takes another drink, not once breaking her calm veneer.

"Mother," Draco starts to say.

"My stance has not changed since last week," interjects Narcissa, stemming his tirade and avoiding the embarrassment of having Draco prostrate himself at her feet. Honestly, the things the Malfoys ingrain into their children. Even the Blacks — save Walburga — weren't quite so severe. Narcissa shakes her head lightly — Lucius is already a lost cause.

Draco isn't so uncouth as to actually gape at her, but his comically wide eyes is almost the same thing and Narcissa tuts maternally at her drink.

"I don't think I can finish this," she says to her mug of butterbeer. Pushing the stool slightly backwards, she gets up and slips out gracefully from the space between the chair and the counter. Draco hurriedly rushes to help her only to be stopped by a gentle hand on his arm.

"Come home when you're ready," Narcissa says, by way of parting. "I'll always be there."

* * *

The bizarre meeting with his mother leaves Draco feeling a little out of sorts. That he's spent most of his day, lounging on the bed, thinking about it over and over, is proof of that.

He'll admit that he hasn't been making the best decisions of late, but to affirm his mother's unwavering support is making him want to go against personal convention and actually make an effort as a dutiful son. It's almost a frightening thought, and yet, somewhat liberating.

He's been pushing and fighting, determined not to follow Lucius' path, so afraid that he'd end up in the same dark place that his father's always been in. But he's not his father and unlike the man, he'd take good help regardless of where it comes from and he'd start from his mother, who will not knowingly lead her son astray. He could reach out to Blaise and Theo, form the trio again, and they could pool their resources and work on ideas they've always talked about. He could owl Pansy — take her to a proper dinner, like he should have, even if it's just as friends. Maybe this time, he could even be more than just a passing acquaintance with Millie.

Just the thought of the possibilities is making him giddy.

Draco pushes himself up from the bed, spying the orange of a sunset in the sky. There is a wide grin on his face and he feels lighter than he has in years. In fact, he feels invincible, like not even the past can touch him and he is sure that tonight, there will be no nightmares.

One more night, he promises himself. One more night, and he will return home after that.

* * *

It isn't his intention, but somehow Draco ends up with an entire bottle of cognac, already three quarters of a way through and no signs of stopping. His initial plan had been to get one drink, and nurse it the entire night while enjoying the muggle scene, most likely the last he'd be seeing in a while. But when the drink came to hand, it had gone before he'd even realise it. He'd convinced himself that another wouldn't do any harm and just like that one drink became two, two became four, and then it was a slippery slope to the upper shelves of hard liquor.

Now as he nurses his umpteenth drink, having lost count somewhere after ten, he starts to wonder if maybe, just maybe, he has a little problem.

He struggles to think through the cotton that his brain seems to have transfigured into but he can't quite arrange the pieces together and can only arrive at an inconclusive hypothesis at best. The blurry vision isn't doing much for his cognitive functioning either, only sending further confusing messages to his brain.

For instance, Draco can't quite tell if it's a group of people standing around him or if someone has arranged a bunch of weirdly shaped plants around his table. If it's a joke, it's not a very good one. He blinks blearily at them, trying to discern which it is exactly. It takes a while for the ringing in his ears to clear out before other noises can filter in and he realises that these things have been making sounds this entire time.

"Oi! You taking the piss, mate?!" It is only after much squinting that Draco notices the mouth moving. Humans, then.

"What?" Draco says, a little too loudly. Or perhaps it's too softly. He can't quite gauge the current volume of his voice just yet.

"Cheeky fucker!" shouts a voice from the back. Draco tries to crane his head to look at the speaker, but that's more movement than he can handle at the moment so he abandons the endeavour in favour of leaning his head against his propped up palm and staring listlessly into space.

That, however, is interrupted by an annoying finger snapping sound that's hovering right in front of his face. Draco tries to swat at it, but whoever is doing that has pulled back in time and Draco's hand only meets air.

"Let's just have at him, guv," one of them says. Draco looks up at that to see a man with some kind of dark, tinted, spectacles — how odd to wear them in a dimly lit area — putting an arm out to restrain the presumed speaker from 'having at him'.

"No, we don't involve innocents," says the man with the dark spectacles. That Draco can't see his eyes makes him feel uncomfortable. "Or we ain't better than those wannabe punks up on Victoria."

"Yeah, but 'ow many blokes got 'air like that?" another one says. "Bet ya 'e dyes it in a salon. Ponce."

"Oi! You!" says man next to the man with spectacles. Draco is already having trouble keeping up. "You that little magician that's been 'anging around Lacey?"

"Lacey?" Draco repeats, confused.

"Our guv's girl, you get me?" says man next, next to man with spectacles.

"'ang on a minit, I thought she dumped 'im?" This, Draco is sure, came from somewhere at the back of the group.

"You shut yer trap 'arold, no one asked you," one says just as another one chimes in with, "Them's on temporary break like. It's still legit, innit?"

Draco's head swims. The room is spinning and he'd like to get off, please. "I don't know who that is," Draco chokes out. He'd  _really_  like to get off.

"Brown curly 'air, blue eyes, legs that go on fer miles? Lacey?" one presses on.

"No, I haven't seen her," Draco slurs, pushing himself up to stand. That, turns out to be a mistake and he promptly doubles over and vomits all over one of the gentlemen's shoes.

An uproar sparks around him with shouts of "That's disrespectful, that is!" and "'e's done it now!" and "I just bought 'em!" Before Draco can adequately process what's happening, he's already floating off the ground and being lead outside.

It's a credit to the alcohol that he doesn't even feel the first few punches. The pain numbing effects only last so long, however. Pretty soon, Draco has curled up into a ball so they don't get as much surface area to hit on but they show no sign of letting up. Draco wonders distantly what it is about group beatings that prompt the perpetrators to make as much noise as possible. If they could do it quietly, he'd be ever so grateful.

It's strange how even among all that shouting and jeering and kicking and punching that he's still able to hear the swish of metal on metal. It's funny too how even after having gone through all the shite he has plus the copious amount of alcohol that he's consumed, dread and fear are still emotions he's very capable of feeling.

The first slice is agony. The switchblades may not be cursed, but they sting all the same. Blood starts to stain his pale skin red. Dimly, Draco realises that he's been in this situation before as an unwilling bystander. If that experience rings true, then they will not stop, fuel on as they are by the adrenalin and shared high of inflicting pain.

If only the Death Eaters knew how alike muggles are to them.

Draco's fingers twitches towards his suit pocket. He'd have to buy a new suit for Tom. It'd be in bad taste to return this one to him. The hawthorn flies into his open palm and he shudders as the feel of magic connection ripples through him.

Wizards know no religion, but had they believed in any deities, Draco would be praying fervently to one in that moment.

He vanishes, leaving behind a very, very confused gang, but not before feeling the tell-tale ripping of an apparition gone wrong.

* * *

Lucius stands by the study's window, absently admiring the way the moon reflects on his skin. Sleep has been a fickle mistress of late and he's crawled out of bed, leaving Narcissa still slumbering peacefully in it.

Day is a time filled with worry for him, not least because of his inability to do much and subsequent lack of distraction. Narcissa's moods have only worsened the situation and Draco...

Lucius jerks abruptly. No, he will not allow even the night to be polluted by such thoughts. As if the boy hasn't been enough cause of worry as he is. Lucius doesn't like to think about what might happen if he were to drop dead now. Will Narcissa cope? Will Draco? How can he convince the boy that he wants him and his mother to be safe and secure in the event that Lucius should pass?

So many questions, so little answers. Lucius sighs.

Suddenly, the ancient Malfoy wards surrounding the Manor and its grounds seem to flare and cause a sharp drop in pressure as it yields for a moment. That can only mean that his wayward son has found his way home.

"Mitzy," he calls out. A popping sound is heard behind him revealing an elf, bowing so low, her ears sweep the lacquered floor.

"Master calls?" she says in a lower pitched squeak that is rather uncommon amongst house elves.

"Do not retrieve the Young Master tonight," Lucius orders.

"Master?" Mitzy asks again, clearly confused and a little panicked. Lucius sighs inwardly. For all the usefulness of their loyalty — Dobby being a clear exception — sometimes it can be a little hindering when discipline must be instilled.

"Leave him," Lucius says. "He can spend the night out under the stars."

Lucius starts to leave but pauses and turns to Mitzy. "Leave him. Do not tend to him, do not bring him in. It'll be a start to the lessons he should start learning. Do you understand me?"

"Y-yes, Master," says Mitzy wretchedly.

"Good," Lucius says and sweeps out of the room, long hair billowing behind him, as he goes to join his sleeping wife in their marital bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your reviews keep me going. I really need them now, since I'm struggling with a chapter. School is not helping.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flesh and Blood is also updated today. A treat of sorts.

It is rare for Hermione to wake up not knowing what she's done last night.

It's an occurrence that has only happened to her twice in her life before. The first was when she was still in Hogwarts and following a Gryffindor Quidditch victory, there had been a house party. Someone — she suspected the twins, though she wouldn't put it past Seamus and Dean — had spiked the punch and she'd woken up in Ginny's bed, smushed together with said girl, Pavarti and a half-naked Lavender all the while nursing a massive, throbbing headache. The second was in a string of reckless one night stands following the breakup with Ron that ended abruptly after she woke, freezing her arse off in a bathtub full of ice, with X marking several spots in permanent marker. She'd summoned her wand, it being abandoned somewhere, presumably with her clothes — the fact that she had not a stitch of clothing on being the least of her worries — and had apparated herself right the fuck out of there.

She ended up spending the rest of that day, dressed in her warmest clothes, curled up in bed with Crookshanks who for once, did not fight to leave her side after he got too warm for his liking.

So it is fair to say that Hermione made it a point to always know precisely where, when, who and what she's done. By all rights, her current predicament of being in a completely new surrounding with no recollection of how she got there should be especially distressing. But distress, it seems, is the last thing on her mind now. At least this time she's in a bed and fully clothed though her wand does seem to be inconveniently missing.

Hermione doesn't even feel particularly worried about that. It'll turn up somewhere, she's sure.

She removes the duvet and gets up from the bed, making a beeline towards the door and jiggles the handle, having the odd feeling that she should make an effort to try that, at least. It doesn't budge. Not at all surprised, Hermione shrugs, and turns to walk the room, taking in her surroundings.

It looks like any other bedroom, with the usual set of furniture — bed, chest of drawers, bedside table and a door that presumably leads to a bathroom. Framed portraits adorn the walls and closer examination reveals that the framed pictures on top of the drawers and table are not in fact from a camera or a film roll, but are all hand painted.

The subjects of the paintings are unknown to Hermione.

She picks up one from the table — this one depicts a picnic with a generous spread and laughing, smiling figures under the warm, inviting sun. She recognises one of the smiling figures as the one sitting in a portrait hung directly opposite the bed.

It takes Hermione a while to realise that the portrait is stagnant — they all are. She shudders. After spending the better part of twenty three years facing lifelike, moving portraits with a mind of their own, she is left feeling odd and out of place when faced with those that are done the traditional, muggle, way.

Hermione replaces the picture and moves towards the window where heavy looking drapes hung, keeping as far away from the eerie portraits as possible.

The curtains, when she goes to touch them, are thick, allowing not even the slightest sliver of light through. If she had to guess, she'd say they seemed to be made out of some velvet like material.

Curious, she pulls the curtain away only to be met with blocked windows, the glass plastered over with pages of newspaper, held together by cellophane tape. Hermione makes a hole in the covering to discover more layers underneath — whoever did it was very thorough indeed. When she tries the latch, it doesn't move, almost as if it's been rusted into place, or most likely, spelled shut.

Hermione steps away and allows the drapes to fall, obscuring all that meticulous insanity once more.

The room, while not small, is not large enough to occupy her attention for long. She laments the lack of books and plops down onto the bed, bouncing up once and waits.

Right on cue, the door handle jiggles and swings open. Hermione bolts upright and eyes the person entering the room.

Hermione instantly recognises the woman as the one from the portrait and the painted picnic scene. She would feel sorry for taking over what is presumably the woman's room, but considering Hermione still has no clue as to how she ended up here, the intrusion only seems fair.

The woman transfers a tray that is balancing on one hand to both hands as she nudges the door open further with her hips.

She is young, younger even than her portrait seems to suggest, and lovelier. The artist has failed to capture the shimmer in her dark mahogany locks, the bright sheen of intelligence in her forest green eyes — the colouring similar to Harry's — and the gracefulness in her steps. With her standing there in the flesh, her portrait seems dull and forgettable in comparison.

"I thought you might be awake," she says, smiling as she places the tray carefully on the bed. On it are two slices of bread, a pat of butter, a glass of milk and some hard cheese along with an apple. "I'm afraid we don't have much food in the house," she says apologetically.

"No, no. This is fine," Hermione rushes to reassure. "I'm not all that hungry anyway."

The woman says nothing but continues smiling and looking at her expectantly. Feeling a smidge awkward, Hermione picks up the apple and starts nibbling on it. The woman nods in satisfaction but makes no move to vacate the room.

With the woman's gaze still steadily trained on her, Hermione starts to fidget uncomfortably.

"I'm Hermione Granger," she says in an attempt to alleviate the strangeness of it all.

"I know who you are," the woman replies, her smile widening. A shiver runs down Hermione's spine. "Alma," the woman offers, and Hermione nods uncertainly at that. She opts to look idly around instead of attempting another line of conversation, her gaze landing once again on the picnic scene.

"A fanciful conceit, I'm afraid," says Alma. Hermione whips her head to look at the other woman only to find her staring grimly at the same painting. "It's not something we're capable of doing any longer."

Hermione frowns. What an odd thing to say, she thinks. She opens her mouth to inquire further but is interrupted by the opening of the door.

Sandy brown hair steps into her view and delicately closes the door behind him. Time seems to slow as the newcomer raises his head and hazel eyes meet hers.

Something in Hermione snaps — she can hear it audibly, echoing loudly in her senses. She lunges forward, closing her small hands over the windpipe of his throat and squeezes hard.

* * *

Harry shoots up in bed, dread and panic coursing — singing — through his veins. His heart races and he reaches blindly to his left. His hand touches Luna's arm and he grips her, gently, and sighs in relief. Cold sweat beads on his forehead and he leans in just enough to catch the whiff of her shampoo, letting the scent wash over him and exert its usual calming effect on him.

Luna barely stirs. Harry spies the Dreamless Sleep by her bedside and brushes the hair off her face. She is usually such a light sleeper, but even she can only hold out for so long. The memories would do that to anyone.

The thin whine of the floo chime comes again.

Harry sighs and thinks it's about time he disconnects the bloody thing at night. No more calls after 6 pm, Patronus for emergencies only — that will be the new policy, he decides.

Another persistent whine comes.

Fat chance, Harry snorts softly. But a man is allowed to dream, isn't he?

If possible, the chime sounds desperate now.

Harry sighs again and pushes the covers off himself. He shivers slightly as he sits up to the cold night air, already missing the warmth of Luna and the bed. Luna takes a sharp breath, rolls over to her other side and exhales deeply. Harry strokes a knuckle over her cheek affectionately before standing up and stretching, feeling his joints pop satisfyingly. He makes his way to the fireplace, lazily scratching his belly and yawning as he grumbles his way down the steps.

A rush of incoherent yelling gurgles through the floo connection when he answers it and Harry grimaces, glad for once that Luna had taken the potion tonight.

He lets it go on for a while but after five minutes of incomprehensible speech — if one can still call it that — Harry decides enough is enough.

"Ron," he says, resisting the urge to rub at his temples. "Ron! RON!" he yells when the first attempt fails to catch the ginger's attention.

"Harry!" the disembodied head in the fireplace yells back. "Harry, you have to help me! It's Lavender, she's -"

"She's what?" Harry presses when Ron cuts half way, his head disappearing from the floo and reappearing a moment later.

"She was there one minute and the next she wasn't!" says Ron quickly, the words jumbling out together that Harry has to mentally slow it down to sort out what he just heard. He blinks and sighs heavily when he does — every time, every single, bloody, time.

"Ron," Harry says, frowning, when this doesn't let up the tirade the other man has gone on.

"Ron! Listen for just one bloody minute, will you?!" Harry nearly screams, his voice cracking embarrassingly towards the end like a prepubescent child. Stunned, Ron does quiet for a moment before settling into a low, constant mumbling.

"You have to learn to let her be, Ron," Harry says, frustrated. "She does this every time. Don't you wonder why?"

"I'm just worried!" Ron insists belligerently. "If I'm not there, something might happen to her. And then what, Harry?"

"Don't you think you should be worried more about the danger she poses to others than they to her?" says Harry incredulously.

"She took the potions," Ron protests.

"Which is not exactly fool proof," Harry points out. Ron huffs but doesn't contradict him. Harry sighs again; he's lost count of how many times he's done that tonight.

"Go home, Ron," Harry says, finally giving in and rubbing his temple with one hand and pinching the bridge of his nose with the other. "She'll return when she's ready. You know she will."

"... Yeah," concedes Ron dejectedly. "Sorry, mate. I woke you up again, didn't I?"

"It's okay, Ron," says Harry, smiling a little. "It's what mates are for. So long as you keep Hermione out of this."

"She's done enough," says Ron, surprising Harry with the forcefulness of his tone. "She's done a lot, for Lavender, for werew- ... for them."

The two men — boys no longer — share a meaningful look before wishing each other good night and cutting the call.

"Harry?" Harry hears as he climbs into bed, the mattress sinking under his weight, her voice sounding more unfocused than normal.

"I'm here," he assures, slipping a hand into her searching one. Luna makes a little noise of contentment and cords her fingers through his, snuggling both their hands in between her breasts.

Harry smiles against the nape of her neck as he slips his other arm under her and pulls her closer to him, so her back is flush against his chest. Slowly, he drifts off back to sleep, lulled on by her steady breaths.

* * *

The bruises blossom beautifully on Slava's neck and Hermione can't help but feel proud of her handiwork, even if it means her wrists are now restrained by invisible tethers.

The act, the strangulation, makes no difference — she knows that  _now_  — but let it not be said that Hermione Granger is not a fighter.

A man — Demyan, he'd introduced himself as — looking no older than his late twenties, frowns and paces in agitation between her and Slava. It is not fair, Hermione thinks, how youthful they all look and remain when people —  _normal_  people — like her, must age and gradually watch their bodies fail them.

Demyan mutters a string of what sounds vaguely Slavic to Hermione and Slava answers, looking sufficiently cowed, in the same language. He makes a show of wincing and rubbing at his neck tentatively and Hermione shoots him a look so filthy it'd make a lesser man shrivel. Satisfaction twists in her gut as he diligently avoids looking in her direction.

"You must forgive him, Miss Granger," Demyan says, his English heavily accented and thick on his tongue. "He is young and stupid. He doesn't know better."

"A child would know better," Hermione says, arching an eyebrow. "Yet somehow  _he_  thinks that kidnapping me would help endear me to your cause."

Hermione crosses her arms, or at least attempts to, her actions somewhat hindered by the unseen tethers. Failing that, she makes sure to let her displeasure be known with a very expressive scowl.

"If you hadn't appeared-" Slava begins to protest.

"Silence!" thunders Demyan. Hermione doesn't remember blinking but suddenly Demyan is in front of Slava, lifting him into the air with one hand closed tightly around his throat. She knows from before that air isn't an issue but pain is etched across his face as he struggles against Demyan's hand and she  _almost_  feels sympathy for him.

"You explicitly went against my orders and jeopardized the entire clan," Demyan says, voice low and dangerous, still holding Slava aloft like he weighs nothing more than a ragdoll. Goosebumps prickle on Hermione's skin and she involuntarily shudders. "You should thank the gods that we can afford to lose no more."

With that, he flings Slava to the ground, said man landing in a heap of uncoordinated limbs, and turns away, the corner of his mouth curled up in disgust.

Hermione clears her throat awkwardly, the sound tiny and weak, but it does its job and Demyan swivels his dark eyes to her. His irises are so black that they blend together with his pupils. Pinned under that eerie gaze, she swallows, her throat suddenly feeling very dry.

"Let me go then," she says with barely a hint of a tremble to her voice. "I can make no promises, but if you let me go, I can talk to Gawain, get him to see things from your side."

"I'm afraid that isn't good enough, Miss Granger," says Demyan slowly, almost like he's speaking to a child. Under any other circumstances, Hermione might have taken offense. "We've tried that but your Gawain will listen to no reason. I admit, his concerns are not... unfounded. Some of us have… taken with the Dark Lord during the war, but these regulations..." Demyan pauses, staring distractedly at some point in the distance. Slava coughs roughly and Demyan rouses back to the present.

"They are a death sentence to us all," Demyan says. "Even to the innocent of us."

Hermione shakes her head, not wanting — nor willing — to believe in what Demyan spoke of. She's seen the figures for herself, knows that they are capable of surviving on no more than one... feeding a month. There are experiments, thorough ones, and irrefutable facts and she tells him as much.

"There are some things you mortals will never understand," says Demyan, a tinge of sadness marring his otherwise stoic tone. But then his gaze turns sharp and his voice turns cold, "Miss Granger, do you know of  _where_ ,  _how_ , your good colleague has obtained the subjects for these experiments that you put so much faith into?"

"What?" Hermione says, not able to articulate much beyond that. A numbness starts to spread from her extremities and she has to keep squeezing her fingers to ensure that they're still there.

"None of them were volunteers," Demyan says and Hermione squeezes her eyes shut against those words. By the time she opens her eyes again, the two men — and the tethers — are gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so you can see I've updated both fics today because it's past 12 and thus officially Halloween. Here's to a fairly lonely birthday.
> 
> As always, review. It gives me the energy to spend my day writing.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flesh and Blood was updated yesterday. I'll admit that this chapter is mostly for me to prove to myself that I am capable of writing smut. This is a first and well, if it's bad, I thank you to reserve all pitchforks and mobs till a later day.

Lucius rarely voices this thought out loud but he knows it to be true as he stares wistfully at his wife, her arms snaked around his waist and her breath dispelling evenly with each rise and fall of her ample chest — he is a lucky, lucky man.

The morning sun filtering in through the glass doors leading out to the balcony lights up the room and casts Cissa in a soft glow. Her blonde hair, a touch darker than the Malfoy colouring, glints gold in the rays.

Narcissa inhales sharply and sleepily burrows her face deeper into the crook of his neck to block out the offending light.

An overwhelming surge of affection rushes through Lucius and he unconsciously tightens his hold on her. Cradling her closer to him, he buries his nose into her hair, kissing and breathing her bewitching scent in deeply till he can almost taste her smell at the back of his tongue.

She shifts slightly, still asleep, unconsciously baring her pale neck to him in an act of unwitting submission and Lucius has to hold himself back from ravaging her delicate throat lest he awakens her. Only Lucius would ever know the horror that is a sleep deprived Narcissa.

He'd make that mistake once, early into their marriage, and he's never been inclined to repeat that experience again. Harpy or banshee wasn't the right description; avenging Valkyrie riding forth from Valhalla was more apt. He'd never seen a sight more terrifying or arousing. His morning had started on a rather painful note that day.

"What are you waiting for?" says a sleep hoarse voice and Lucius breaks from his reverie to look down into startlingly blue eyes, unfocused and hooded in a stirring mixture of sleep and desire.

The reaction in his cock is almost instantaneous.

With a low growl, Lucius deftly flips their positions. She lands on her back against the soft sheets with a soft giggle, the feminine sound shooting straight to his increasingly tight pyjama bottoms. Looming over his wife, he lowers his lips to the soft skin of her neck, nibbling and sucking a trail up to her jaw.

She sighs in contentment and Lucius moves to capture her mouth in a searing kiss. His wife, capable of being obstinate when she wills it, refuses to allow him entrance and he smirks, letting her feel the action against her lips as he triples his assault.

He worries and nips and suckles, catching her kiss swollen bottom lips between his teeth, tugging gently, while one hand sneaks underneath her nightgown, flutters up her ribcage and brushes the pad of his thumb against one sensitive nipple. Narcissa gasps and seizing the opportunity, Lucius slips his tongue triumphantly into her mouth, caressing and battling her slick organ with his own.

A low moan rumbles in her throat and the vibrations it causes across his tongue incites a groan from him as he roughly cups a heavy breast in his palm, squeezing and kneading as he avoids the hardened peak, denying her pleasure. Narcissa whines, arching her breast further into his hold and bucks her hips at his pelvis. Lucius growls and pins her hips down with one unyielding hand as he surreptitiously shifts so she isn't able to grind herself on his jutting erection.

Breaking away from the kiss, Lucius makes his way downwards, licking and swirling a line down her delicate throat and over the dip between her collarbones. When he reaches her cleavage only to be blocked by fabric, he swiftly peels the nightgown off the noisily mewling woman beneath him in one smooth movement that speaks of years of practice, tossing it to the side where it lands in a heap on the floor.

Looking down at Narcissa, her pale skin flush, breasts heaving and pupils blown, Lucius' licks his lips in satisfaction and gives her a grin so predatory that it immediately has her shuddering. He latches his mouth over one breast, twirling his tongue around and around the hardened bud while pinching and rolling the other peak between his forefingers and thumb.

A hand immediately weaves itself into his long hair and presses him down closer to her. He hums, pleased with the reactions he's teased out of her and she moans scratchily at the feel of it.

"Lucius, please!" pleads Narcissa as she wraps her legs around his waist, pressing her heels into his back, trying to push him nearer to the aching apex between her thighs.

"So impatient," Lucius teases huskily, while turning his attention to the other nipple and administering his infuriatingly slow ministrations on it. Narcissa howls and nearly claws his back before he finally touches the pads of his two fingers and thumb to her heated core.

He involuntarily moans at the wetness that he finds there. Her knickers are completely drenched.

Moving aside the thin scrap of fabric, Lucius runs his fingers along her slit, parting the folds and feeling her juices run down his digits. Beneath him, Narcissa squirms and writhes as she incoherently urges him to touch her where she needs. Ignoring her, he deliberately circles around her nub, heightening her sensitivity without giving in to her wanton demands.

Her dainty hand comes over his and tugs desperately to get him  _there_ , but he grabs her wrist together with her other one and secures both hands over her head with his. She bucks wildly and lets loose a string of expletives that should never be heard in the company of ladies or gentlemen, ardently cursing her inconsiderate, cocktease of a husband.

For that, he flicks her nub and she throws her head back into the pillow and hisses, thrusting her mound sharply towards him.

"If you don't fuck me now," says Narcissa, her voice low and dangerous, filled with dark promises. "I will rip your bollocks off and feed them to the peacocks."

The combination of her words, the maelstrom of lust in her blue eyes, now darkened impossibly, and the foot that she's somehow managed to work over his cock, rubbing and pressing shamelessly, breaks whatever self-control he's maintained. Lucius snarls and rips the knickers off his wife, eliciting a scandalous gasp and a wicked grin from the minx. He hurriedly tugs, fumbling, the waistband of his bottoms down and with one hard, solid thrust, buries himself home.

The both of them freeze and moan loudly at the feeling of finally being joined, pausing to regain their breath before a simultaneous frenzy takes over them. Lucius plunges himself in and out of her depths, feeling the walls of her inner muscles sucking him in with every push in while she matches his rhythm, meeting him for every stroke, every grind of his undulating hips.

He knows the moment that she's about to reach her climax. Her walls start fluttering, creating a delicious ripple of pleasure over and around his cock and he increases his force, nearly slamming her against the headboard, if it weren't for her hands clutching and holding herself from hitting it.

Her moans grow louder and louder, her words more and more jumbled until finally her toes curl, her eyes screwed shut and an intense wave of pleasure breaks and washes over her, her mouth frozen in a silent scream of approval.

The sensation of her orgasm is too much for Lucius. He pistons urgently into her, hard and fast, riding out her climax, as he chases his own. With a hoarse shout and a reverent prayer to Narcissa on his lips, Lucius spends himself deep into her cloying heat as she milks him for all he's worth.

They stay like that, unmoving; Lucius slumped over her, his weight shifted off her as he leans against his forearms and Narcissa still cradling him between her thighs. After a while, Narcissa grips his hips and pulls him off, ignoring his hiss of loss as she slips out from under him.

Narcissa pushes him and he dutifully rolls to his back beside her. Slowly, she picks herself up and moves to the edge, long legs dangling off the bed. She wordlessly summons her silk robe and starts to put it on. Following her lead, Lucius sits up and lightly holding on to her waist, pulls back her robes enough to give him access and gently kisses her shoulders.

"Stay here in bed with me today, Cissa," Lucius rasps, voice rough from shouting his pleasure to the high heavens.

Narcissa shrugs him off, readjusts her robes, tightening the tie in the process and gives him a chilling, sideway glance. Lucius backs unconsciously, like her gaze burns and stares at her incredulously.

"Don't think I've forgiven you for driving our son away," says Narcissa, her tone biting and cool.

"I'm just using you to scratch an itch," informs Narcissa before getting up and leaving to the bathroom. The sound of locks sliding unmistakably into place is heard and Lucius is left alone on the bed, the previous warmth having dissipated to leave only a cool breeze behind.

* * *

He isn't surprised when breakfast turns up no Draco. What really irks him is that Narcissa hasn't bothered to show up either.

He'd arrive at the breakfast table, expecting his wife's presence — she may have shunned him earlier but surely they were civilized enough to keep up appearances — only to find just one placing at the table. He'd summon Mitzy in a fit of growing rage and the elf had appeared, scraping and bowing and looking utterly dismayed.

One look at the elf and he had his answer, but his anger needed an outlet and the elf was a convenient target. By the time he'd dismissed her, she'd promised to self-flagellate ten times over and had suffered more.

Seething, Lucius piles his plate high with everything within reach in childish defiance while his thoughts churn out questions that have no real answer.

Had she known that he'd instructed Mitzy to leave Draco out last night? He doubts it since Mitzy will not offer up that information on her own accord and Cissa has no cause to ask. But if there's anyone who's the embodiment of Slytherin, it's Narcissa. Not even the Dark Lord himself could claim to ever measure up to the cunning deviousness of the youngest Black sister.

He curses the day he just had to fall in love with Narcissa Black and demand his father arrange a union between them. It is, perhaps, his sheer luck that she had reciprocated as knowing her as he does now, no force on heaven or earth will be able to move her to concede willingly if she had not looked favourably upon the arrangement.

Lucius pushes his fully laden plate away, his anger receding and appetite gone, much like his wife.

* * *

The decanter is already bereft of its stopper before Lucius registers what he is doing. The burning whiff of firewhiskey pulls him from his distraction and he blinks in surprise at the crystal tumbler that he's been about to reach out for.

Scowling, he recoils hastily from the offending items, remembering the sour musk emanating from his son, and stalks away to the other end of the room where his desk is located. A long roll of parchment lies on top, discarded from before he'd unconsciously drifted to the liquor cabinet.

Leaning against the high back of his chair, Lucius reaches over and unfurls the parchment, eyes tracing to where he last left off.

For years, he has put off writing this. Foolish arrogance kept him from completing it before the second war and some latent fear for the inevitable that this document implied stayed his hand after.

Now though, with the worries of the future plaguing him, he has finally found the motivation to attempt settling his will. There has never been any question as to who it will all go to, but a legal binding document would ensure that Draco isn't swindled out of his rightful inheritance by the Ministry or anybody preying on the Malfoy fortune.

Giving the will one last meticulous read through, Lucius picks up his quill and signs his name in one quick flourish before pressing the seal bearing the Malfoy crest underneath it as the final addition.

With that, what has been years in the making is finally done. Lucius sighs softly as he straightens and rolls his neck and shoulders, ironing out the cricks and tension that have gathered there.

"Master!" Mitzy's voice calls out just as she apparates into the room and Lucius is about to throw out a stern reprimand when he catches sight of the wretched elf and the rebuke shrivels in his mouth. She is pale and shaking, clawing madly at her long ears, and this time, Lucius isn't the cause of it.

"The Young Master! The Mistress!" she wails and Lucius turns ashen, dread pooling in his stomach.

"What happened?" he demands but the elf is sobbing and howling too much to reply to his question. Losing what little patience he possesses, Lucius steps towards the creature, palm open and arm pulled back in a ready slap when she darts forwards, grabs him and disapparates.

Lucius stumbles to his knees when they land, unprepared and shocked at the audacity of elves these days. But before the anger can lash out, the scent of roses catches his attention and he looks around, astonished to find himself in the garden. He turns to look at Mitzy quizzically, but the elf has already set off running to somewhere beyond Narcissa's prized bushes.

Irritated and apprehensive, Lucius pulls himself up off the ground and picks his way through the plants, following Mitzy's trail. The wind picks up at that moment, bringing with it a stronger, headier scent of the surrounding flowers and the faint cries of a woman.

Lucius breaks off into a sprint, unconcerned with the way the wind whips his hair into his face, partially obscuring his vision, as he chases down the screams.

The sounds come louder and he pushes himself faster. His lungs are struggling, his thighs, burning. His feet is aching and he's scratched himself on one or two low hanging branches but he won't allow rest, not now, not yet.

He halts abruptly when he comes to a small, grassy clearing. Blond hair, glinting gold in the sunlight, flashes in his view. There, in the middle is a woman who looks uncannily like Narcissa but cannot possibly be her.

The Narcissa that he knows is calm and collected, always. She shed no tears when Andromeda ran off with the mudblood, let slipped nothing during the entirety of the Dark Lord's residence in their home and made no sound when Bellatrix fell. She is the pureblood epitome — reserved in all ways but in the privacy of their bedroom.

In contrast, the woman in front of him is wild — skirt grass-stained, hair falling out from a usually precise up do, face scrunched up in sobs and a sorrowful keen sounding from her throat. The emotions pouring out from the woman — this person that he can't conceivably know — is so acute, Lucius can't even near her for fear that it'll be infectious and that he'll too be reduced to the same primal savagery.

Keeping a safe distance away, Lucius can do naught else but stare at the wailing stranger, desperately clutching his son's unresponsive body tightly to her bosom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't think it'd just be all angry sex, did you?
> 
> As always, leave a review. Even a simple "I like it!" will make any author's day.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flesh and Blood was updated yesterday.

In the permanently darkened room, Hermione has lost all concept of time. Without a watch or a wand, the unknown hours bleed into uncountable days. Most of the time, she has no idea if it's night out or day out, falling asleep only when exhaustion demands it and willing the time away when she's awake.

The only way she knows that there  _is_  a passage of time is by Alma's occasional appearance and along with her, the food tray.

So far, Alma's the only other living — the term isn't strictly correct, Hermione supposes, at least not in the traditional sense — soul to make trips to 'visit' her. Demyan has not appeared in front of her again since the first night, content it seems to let his underlings deal with her.

Isolated for the most part and in an effort to not go spare, Hermione makes various attempts at learning more about her captors. Despite her best efforts, Alma remains resolutely mute on the subject and unlike previous occasions, there are no convenient books or sprawling libraries lying around for her to read and search through. She doesn't even know for sure that they don't have a library in this place. Since she's arrived, she's only been staring at the same four walls — going to the bathroom is considered a change of scenery.

After everything is said and done, Hermione ends up right back at where she started, knowing as much about them as she did before — that is, not very much at all.

As accustomed as she is to Alma's unnerving presence, Hermione still automatically tense up when she hears the door opening, though she steadfastly refuses to look.

It is only when a fuzziness, strong enough to blur out the sharp edges of her mind, settles over her that she realises that something is not right.

"Slava," Hermione calls out, barely managing to keep her voice even, her spine straight and her lips thin as her mind swims in a haze of artificial relaxation.

"Still keen as ever, Ms Granger," Slava says. Hermione turns stiffly to face him — he hasn't yet moved from his position by the door.

"You flatter me," she grits out. "Only you will stoop to third rate mind tricks first."

"You-" he begins as he steps into the room. Hermione pushes her chin up in defiance, eyes flashing and fists curling in anticipation, when he deflates, stopping halfway across the room.

"It wasn't my intent to bring you here," he says, head hung low as if ashamed, and Hermione can almost physically feel her damnable soft hearted sympathy rising at the display. "It was a mistake."

"Surely even the great Hermione Granger has made mistakes," he says.

"None on this scale," Hermione retorts, the words coming out more biting than she intends them.

"No, of course not. You're the Golden Girl, perfect, precise," says Slava bitterly, but then his lips curl up maliciously, baring rows upon rows of sharp, sharp teeth. "Precise enough to maim but not kill."

Any previous rush of sympathy she may have had towards the young vampire freezes in her veins and the way her body stiffens is almost painful.

"I wasn't on the battlefield myself, Demyan forbade all the younger ones from offering our services, but we hear things," he says, voice low and cruel. "Diffindo, nasty hex, isn't it?"

"I never did understand why some curses are more unforgivable than others," he muses, chuckling to himself. "Way I see it; it seems like a free pass for some."

"Of course, I was never a wizard. Most of us weren't. We're... what do you call it? Muggle?" says Slava and scoffs. "Sounds like a classification one would give an animal."

"If you were Muggle, why did you help Voldemort?" demands Hermione, finally finding her voice. "He would have killed everyone."

Slava barely gives any indication that he has heard her, merely staring at her with a half lidded gaze.

"Not that, I suppose, being a vampire is any better," Slava continues like there has been no interruptions. "We're certainly nowhere near human according to your ministry rules."

"The funny thing about oppression," he says, smiling lazily. "People are always so surprised when the oppressed rise in revolt."

"Have you said enough, Slava?" says a girlish voice that Hermione doesn't recognise and she immediately swivels to the source of the voice, her eyes wide and just this side of wild.

In saunters a little girl, looking no older than twelve and Slava's posture instantly changes to a more subdued one.

"Klavdiya," he says and Hermione blinks in surprise at the sheer  _respect_  evident in his tone. "I'm just sharing some truths with her."

"You're causing our guest grief," she says. Despite the height he has on her, Slava seems to shrink besides this little girl. "Leave us, Slava." To which he mumbles something under his breath and promptly obeys, leaving Hermione and the girl alone.

"Forgive him, he's young and has foolish notions of justice," the girl, Klavdiya says. A sick sense of horror brewing since Klavdiya's appearance grows and swells in Hermione as she stares at the small figure before her.

"They changed children?" Hermione whispers, more a statement than a question, unable to mask the alarm and repulsion in her tone.

A near discernible change comes over Klavdiya as the room's temperature seems to drop a few degrees. Hermione shivers, rubbing her hands together and along her upper arms. Any colder and her teeth would be chattering.

"The only crime my sire committed was of youth and ignorance," Klavdiya says as she paces the room, idly inspecting the odd frame or two. "He didn't live long enough to realise what we'd been condemned to."

Despite herself, Hermione perks and pays close attention to what Klavdiya is saying. It's the first anyone has mentioned of anything regarding the vampiric condition since what little Demyan had cryptically revealed.

"If you knew you possessed the ability to save the person that you love, wouldn't you take it as well?" asks Klavdiya. "He had no way of knowing that this is no escape."

"For someone... condemned, as you claim, you're taking it remarkably well," Hermione observes.

"I have had many years to come to terms with it," Klavdiya shrugs. "Anger and resentment have no meaning to the truly dead — what's the point of holding on to them? I learn to cope, we all do."

"By coping-"

"I mean exactly what you think I mean," Klavdiya interrupts.

"Why?" Hermione demands, all her revulsion and anger condensed forcefully into that one word.

"Why?" Klavdiya echoes. "Did you think this is a matter of choice, Ms Granger?"

"Everyone has a choice! Always!" Hermione denies, vehemence and righteous rage fuelling her on. But as Klavdiya stare steadily at her, the way an adult would as they wait for a child to realise he's being inappropriate, Hermione feels the pulsing emotions drain out of her and in its place, a meekness settles in.

Hermione has never felt so chastised in her life. The mere thought of it is almost scandalous.

"I'm led to believe that you're a very bright woman, Ms Granger," Klavdiya says evenly. If she had been condescending, it would have hurt less. "But some things, not even the most brilliant can understand."

"I think, Ms Granger, that it's time for you to go home," Kladivya says before sweeping out of the room, pigtails bouncing behind her.

* * *

 

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty six hours. Twenty thousand, one hundred and sixty minutes. That is how long Hermione has been missing.

They should have known something was amiss when Hermione failed to turn up for work. But they hadn't known, hadn't even noticed till Berenice came to the Auror office and asked them where she was.

As Ron paces a path into the living room carpet, Harry can't help but wonder when they stopped keeping track of each other. He just hopes it isn't too late to begin again anew.

Harry glances outside, at the garden, where the women are at. Upon their arrival, Luna had immediately steered Lavender away to some other distraction and had left him and Ron to each other's much needed company. Though with Ron in this state, Harry finds he'd rather join the girls in what appears to be a tensed discussion about flowers.

Harry turns to Ron and stares at him for a while longer.

"Ron, will you stop?" Harry says finally. Ron doesn't so much as pause in his steps. "You're being irrational. What could you have done?"

"I could have stopped it," Ron growls.

"We don't even know what 'it' is," Harry mumbles, running a hand through the unruly mess he calls a head of hair.

"What are you saying?" Ron says, accusation clear in his narrowed eyes.

"Nothing," Harry says, shaking his head lightly. "None of us knew what was going to happen — what  _is_  happening — and unless you had stuck by her the entire time, I doubt you could have done anything, Ron."

"Then maybe I should have!"

"And Lavender? You would leave her be?" Harry demands, irritation and volume rising with each word, till he's almost yelling at Ron. "You can't even leave the poor girl alone for a run. It's a wonder she doesn't suffocate under your bulk!"

Ron glares at Harry, fists clenched and partly raised. Harry crosses his arms and meets Ron's glare head on.

"Why aren't you more worried?! Do you not care?!" yells Ron with such force that a vein on his neck juts out hideously, throbbing under the strain.

"You're doing enough for the both of us!" Harry snaps. "How dare you suggest I do not care!"

By now they've moved so closely to each other that they're nose to nose, blue against green, squaring off at each other, all the while a low growl is heard emanating from Ron.

Harry blinks, suddenly realising their position, and reluctantly steps back. Ron doesn't follow, but remains where he is, looking at Harry warily.

"It's just..." Harry says, clearing his throat a little when it rasps. "Someone has to keep a level head." Slowly, Ron relaxes and the tension gradually lifts from the room.

"I don't like it," Ron says, frowning. "We should be in the office, investigating, anything, not here, doing nothing."

"They kicked us out, remember?" Harry smiles bitterly and Ron returns an equally bitter one.

"Yeah well, since when have we listened to authority?" grouses Ron. "But here we are, twiddling our sodding thumbs while Hermione is Merlin knows where, probably terrified out of her mind."

"How do we even know if she's really in trouble? How do you know she's not in Paris, visiting the Louvre or... or... in Australia looking for-" Harry cringes before he finishes the sentence but there is no Hermione around to look apologetic for.

"Listen to yourself, Harry!" says Ron. "She's our best friend! She would have said something... wouldn't she?" Ron's gaze flickers uncertainly to Harry.

"Admit it, Ron. We're not as close as we used to be," Harry sighs, finally putting to words what they've known for a long time now. "You don't even go to her about your worries about Lavender anymore."

"That's because she's already done too much for us, you know that," Ron excuses.

"Yeah well, since when has that stopped us?" Harry asks.

Ron shoots him a filthy glare and goes back to his angry, worried, pacing. Harry sighs again and resumes looking out mutely at the gardens.

* * *

 

In her sleep, Hermione dreams of a voice.

She is blind, but the voice guides, beckons. Sometimes it is her mother's, other times, her father's. Once it is Ginny's, then Harry's, then Ron's. The voice sings and soothes and asks questions she has no way of comprehending except that the answer is yes, always yes.

She expects the pain before it comes - sharp and biting, but only for the briefest of moments before it is gone.

Hermione bolts upright to the sound of knocking.

How thoughtful, she thinks wryly. Maybe if she ignores it long enough, they will go away.

After five continuous minutes of the sound of knuckles rapping on wood, Hermione can take it no more. Flinging the covers off, she stalks to the door, grumbling and muttering the entire time. She remembers, too late, that the handle doesn't respond to her touch, but the door is already swinging open, and she's too surprised to do much beyond 'look dumbfounded'.

Demyan stands on the other side, far more amused than is necessary and Hermione scowls. Behind him, Slava broods gloomily. They exchange a droll glance in greeting.

"Ms Granger," Demyan says pleasantly. Hermione, not in such a charitable mood herself, crosses her arms with a grunt and waits for him to elaborate.

Demyan chuckles accommodatingly and continues, "You'll be happy to know that you'll be going home tonight."

Hermione arches an eyebrow. Part of her wonders if it's Klavdiya's decision or if she's merely overheard Demyan talking about it; the other part is just glad to be rid of this place and its strange occupants.

"Just like that?" Hermione questions. "No coercion, no mind tricks to get me to help your cause?"

As if the night couldn't get any stranger, Demyan bursts out laughing. Hermione can only imagine that the same look of shock on Slava's face is mirrored on her own.

"No, I don't believe that'll be necessary," he manages to squeeze out between trickles of mirth. "I can't imagine you'd be happy to co-operate with us at any rate."

"Well- Well, then," Hermione says, wondering if it's too late to make a break for it at this point. "I'd thank you for your hospitality but that hardly seems appropriate."

"Quite right, Ms Granger, quite right you are," titters Demyan and Hermione subtly takes a step back into the room. "They didn't say you're bright for nothing." Hermione isn't quite sure if that is meant as a compliment or as an insult, but she decides, as she stares at the flush on Demyan's cheeks, that it doesn't matter.

"What about my wand?" she asks. For the time of her confinement, she's felt the absence of it like an itch, but now that the prospect of home is near, she's feeling its lost keenly - her fingers already twitching to wrap around the wooden stick.

"Slava," here, Demyan nods at the man in question, "will return it to you once he sees you home safely."

At Hermione's turned down lips, Demyan clarifies, "You are his responsibility." That, Hermione supposes, explains his broodiness.

"When shall we leave?" Hermione asks.

"Oh, about..." Demyan pulls out a decidedly antique looking pocket watch and glances at it. "Now." Without warning, Slava surges forward and encircles Hermione's wrist in a tight grasp, giving her not even the chance to make a startled noise.

Her head is caught in a dizzying pain as she pitches forward into a soft, familiar bed. Nearby, a cat hisses and she reaches out, absent-mindedly, to pat it. The cat nuzzles affectionately against her palm and she realises, suddenly, why he looks so familiar.

She attempts to sit up, but something or someone is pushing her down and slipping something into her free hand in the process. The connection of magic ripples through her and she shudders at the long awaited reunion.

A voice — Slava's, for who else can it be — whispers into her ear. Bewildered, she tries to look at him, but he seems to be flickering and she can't quite get a grasp on him.

"Why are you telling me this?" she asks blindly to the moving shadows.

"You'll need it."

"What do you me-"

"Sleep, Ms Granger," the whispers come again. "And speak of this to no other living soul."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews keep me going and it's been low as of late, which saddens me. Not even yesterday's full Dramione chapter could bring it up (in fact it's at an all time low) and well, it's disheartening.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flesh and Blood was updated yesterday.

The gates to the family mausoleum creak open obediently under Lucius' touch. He grimaces at the grating noise, mentally making a note to send an elf down here later to oil the hinges.

He casts a warming charm on himself before stepping into the structure despite knowing how futile the endeavour is. For as long as he could remember, the mausoleum always had a draft through it that chilled to the bone regardless of how many spells are cast. It was always dark too, seeming to swallow even the brightest Lumos.

In all his years, he's only been down here three times before. The first was when he was five and curious. He had gone in to explore and somehow had been locked in. Terrified, he'd pissed himself. Apparently, he was only in there for an hour — it felt much longer.

The second was when his mother had been interred in there. He hadn't wanted to go in, but Abraxas is nothing if not insistent — the man ruled his household with an iron fist. And the last had been when Abraxas himself had succumbed to dragon pox.

It has never been Lucius' favourite place. If he could help it, he'd never step foot into the place again so long as he lived. He has buried two Malfoys there. Now he's about to bury a third.

A breeze picks up just as Lucius lights the candles lining the insides of the tomb. In a short moment, the lights are extinguished once more, wisps of smoke rising from the wicks' end. If Lucius didn't know any better, he'd say that the place was haunted or worse, that it has a mind of its own.

Abandoning the attempt at lighting up the area, Lucius silently casts a Lumos, bringing forth a dim glow on the end of his wand and ventures further into the stone chamber.

"Father," he acknowledges as he reaches a familiar sarcophagus. "Mother," he nods at the one next to it. He lingers for just a moment, gazing pensively at the two before turning abruptly on his heels and journeying on. The deeper he goes in, the brighter it becomes until he comes to a room where stood the only four candles in the entire place that would stay lit.

This area, unlike the other parts of the mausoleum, contains no sarcophagi or urns housing the ashes of the dead. Instead, it is spacious and clutter free. It is also, Lucius is pleased to note, cleaned and dusted.

Striding ahead, Lucius goes to the middle of the room where a great big slab of stone is situated. Most days, that slab would be lonely and cold, but tonight, and for the following six nights, Draco is laid out upon it. His hands are folded together on top of his chest and he looks like he could just be sleeping. Lucius can't remember the last time Draco's ever slept so peacefully — it feels like an age ago. Bending over his son, he licks his thumb and smoothes a stray hair neatly behind Draco's ear.

People have always commented on how much Draco takes after Lucius, looks-wise, and while the boy is certainly a handsome lad, Lucius knows that to be only mostly true. Draco's nose has always been Cissa's, as is those cheekbones. A perfect blend of the two — their little boy.

Still looking at his son, Lucius reaches into his robe pocket and pulls out two knuts. He leans over and places the knut pieces, one over each of Draco's eyelids. Straightening, Lucius roves his gaze over the rest of his son, his eye catching on a stray thread at the cuff of Draco's dress robes.

Lucius picks at the string, frowning deeply. This wouldn't do. It wouldn't do at all. He can't let him show up in rags — he'll have to order a new set of robes for the boy. There will be no expenses spared, Lucius promises quietly. There should be nothing but the finest for the Malfoys.

* * *

 

He should feel tired, but he isn't, really. A night keeping vigil by Draco's side is nothing, not when there're lots still to be done.

For instance, he has to check that all the mirrors in the house are properly covered. The elves should have no problem performing the simple task, but it's all the more reason to make sure that there has been no slip up.

As he paces through the house, nodding distractedly at each covered glass and tugging at a few to straighten out the creases, he mentally recounts the other things that still require his attention. When he's satisfied that the mirrors have been dealt with to his liking, Lucius makes his way to his study and begins on the other pressing duties.

Half the afternoon is gone when Lucius finally looks up from sorting out the details for Draco's wake. The measurements for the new robes have been sent off to Twilfitt, a lovely, hand carved sarcophagus should be in the process of being made and the elves have been made aware to reserve all the white lilies in the garden for the occasion.

Lucius smiles softly, pleased to have gotten a decent amount of work done. He stretches in place, finally noticing the sandwich that has been placed on his desk. He hadn't even realised he'd missed lunch. Dragging the plate to himself, he picks up the food and bites into it.

Lucius grimaces as he chews the bite slowly. The sandwich is dry and tasteless, like chewing on parchment. It's just as well since he isn't that particularly hungry anyway. He places the rest of the sandwich down and pushes it away, already pulling the next parchment in queue closer.

A frown appears between his brows when he realises it is the guest list needing to be compiled. He barely recognises half of the people in their supposed social circle and knows their names even less. Lucius has always made it his business to know those who matter but anyone else he's usually dismissed within ten seconds of being introduced to them — it was always Narcissa's role to remind him who it was they were exchanging small talk with.

Not too keen on the prospect of seeking his wife out at the moment, Lucius tries to fill in the list from memory, taking great care to make sure he's spelled their names right. There are not much worse social faux pas than getting the names of your guest wrong.

After a good fifteen minutes, ten measly names are all Lucius manages to get down. At this rate, they'd be lucky he's even remembered their name enough to misspell it.

He sighs, glaring balefully at the mockingly short list. This simply wouldn't do.

Lucius sighs again — there's no two ways about it. He pushes out of his seat, taking his time fussing about with rearranging the things on his desk before finally leaving the sanctuary of his study to find Narcissa.

* * *

 

Patience has never been Lucius' strong point. After searching through the entire west wing for his elusive wife and finding not a hair of the infuriating woman, he's almost at the end of his tether.

Now he stalks through the east wing, marching angrily through the hallways while taking a quick scan of each passing room.

He is about to walk past one of the many bedrooms in this Merlin forsaken Manor when something stops him in his steps. Lucius turns stiffly to the door on his right. It is slightly ajar, just wide enough for him to see what's going on without having to stick his head in to peer behind the door.

One of the elves — Pinky? Twinky? Blinky? — is wringing a cloth out into a water-filled basin perched on a bedside table and lying on the bed itself is Draco, half-dressed and motionless. He notices, too late, that this room is — was — Draco's bedroom.

Lucius stares and stares at the fine criss-crossings all over Draco's pale torso, hidden always — unknown — under clothes. He stares as the elf delicately wipes the cloth down his son's chest, then down the arms, going between each finger meticulously as it cleans his son. He stares at his son, lying in his bed, on top of his blue sheets, as an elf washes him, like he's just passed out from a night of heavy drinking and everything's fine.

Lucius is hitting the elf, its frightened squeaks filling the air, before he registers what he's doing.

Blood seeps from the elf's — Jinky's? Rinky's? — nose where he's broken it and he stares at the purple spreading steadily on its cheeks and eye. The wretched thing is cowering in front of him, utter fear in its eyes and Lucius wants to give in to his baser urges, wants to beat it bloody till it's nothing left but blood and flesh and bones, a former husk of this living thing.

Slowly, he lowers his right fist and the left, which is holding the elf up by the scruff of his neck — he doesn't know when that happened — he lets go. The elf crumples into a snivelling, twitching heap at his feet and Lucius turns away from the sight in disgust.

"Why is he here?!" Lucius demands.

"Answer me!" Lucius screams, kicking the fallen creature when it fails to deliver an answer quick enough.

"Th-The- The Mistress," it stammers. "The Mistress asks... She... asks Binky t-to bring... bring... the Young Master h-here."

"Narcissa!" Lucius roars. "Where is she?!"

"M-Mis- Mistress is in the garden, M-Master," Binky says, clutching its ears and curling up into a ball on the floor.

Without another glance at the bed or at the elf, Lucius rushes out, the guest list the last thing on his mind, intent on confronting his wife.

* * *

True to the elf's word, he does find Narcissa in the garden. She is crouched over her precious rose bushes, weeding and tending to them with great care. Lucius storms across the path to her, towering over her crouched form.

Narcissa continues on with her work like he isn't there blocking her sun.

"What is the meaning of this?" Lucius says, voice pitched low and dangerous. Anyone else would have started bending over backwards to accommodate him, to try and not incur his wrath. Narcissa just says calmly, "I'm afraid I don't follow, husband."

"Don't be obtuse, Cissa," Lucius sneers. "It doesn't become you."

"Now we know where Draco gets it from," Narcissa comments, gazing coolly at the ugly expression on Lucius' face. Lucius closes his eyes, raising a shaky hand to his face and inhales deeply. When he opens his eyes again, Narcissa still hasn't abated her unflinching stare and Lucius averts his sight elsewhere.

"You can't do this," Lucius says softly. "He doesn't belong there. Not anymore."

He hears her stab the trowel she's been handling into the soil viciously several times.

"I am not leaving him in that place, Lucius," she says between gritted teeth. "He deserves better."

"What are you going to do if he starts rotting in his room, Cissa?" Lucius reasons gently.

"That will never happen," she says with such conviction that Lucius snaps his head back to her, worry and just the slightest bit of wariness creeping into his eyes as he looks at her. "I've placed a stasis charm on him. He'll remain like that forever. Perfect."

"What are you doing, Cissa?" Lucius asks shakily. "You can't- " Lucius cuts himself off, trying to think of the right words but finding that there simply is none.

"You can't just take him out of there, Cissa," Lucius reasons again. "There are traditions to uphold." At the mention of traditions, her eyes flash, turning dark in a millisecond and Lucius takes an involuntary step backwards.

"Fuck. Your. Traditions," she says, painstakingly enunciating every syllable. "This is our son, not some random stranger. Or do you even care that our son is gone?"

"Cissa," he says lowly, a hint of a warning in his tone. She blinks up at him, unfazed.

"I will not be intimidated," she sneers and Lucius can't help but think that she is wrong, that Draco got it from her. The boy's temperament has always been Narcissa's, only Narcissa's. "Not by the likes of you."

"Don't do this, Cissa," Lucius says, pleads.

"What right do you have to demand this of me now?!" she's yelling now and he can do nothing to stop her warpath. "To demand anything of me?!"

"You stood aside and let this happen!" she screams, yanking up parts of the bushes, whatever she could reach, by the roots. Dirt flies up everywhere and Lucius steps further back to avoid the splatter.

"He could have been saved! He could have lived!" she howls, the cry wounded and lanced with grief. "But you! You're making me bury him!"

"You!" she screams, picking up a rock and hurls it at him. If he hadn't dodged out of the way in time, it would have hit him in the head. "You who killed our boy!"

"You killed him!" she screams into her destroyed plants, fingers searching desperately for more to obliterate.

"You killed him!" Another rock hurtles in his direction as he beats a hasty retreat into the safety of the Manor.

"You killed our son!" he last hears before he runs away from her though those words still ring in his ears long after he's left her behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, I may not be able to post up chapters next week. My free time has mostly been taken up by work and if not that, then assignments demands my attention. 
> 
> That being said, review. Even a simple "I like it!" will brighten any author's day.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flesh and Blood was updated two days ago.

Hermione's reflection looks steadily back at her.

It — she — looks terrible; all sallow skin and dull, glassy eyes. Deep, dark bruises colour the undersides of those eyes as Hermione blinks slowly, sluggish, like she's in a walking sleep. Ever her normally too lively hair is flat and subdued; the curls hanging limp around her and on her shoulders. Her hand comes up, fingers twitching, almost as if to stroke them but it falls rapidly to her side and returns to where it once was on the sink.

She wants to look away but finds that she can't.

Time passes, the sun rising outside beyond her bedroom window, staining the sky a pale orange that eventually transitions to a startlingly clear blue, the likes of which the London skyline rarely sees.

She doesn't know how long she stands there, gripping the edge of her sink till her knuckles are past white to some impossible tint her olive skin has no business being.

The bathroom door creaks open wider from where she's left it ajar. Crookshanks meows loudly and brushes his tail against her as he weaves through her legs.

Gradually, with the help of Crookshanks' insistent affections, Hermione rouses from her standing torpor, finally reaching down to scratch the ginger half kneazle behind the ears. He lightly head butts her, purring like a vibrating storm, but doesn't remove his head from her leg.

"It's okay, Crooks," she says. "I'm okay."

Crookshanks meows, staring up at her with those frightfully intelligent tawny yellow eyes and Hermione smiles, thin and small.

"I will be," she amends. "Are you hungry?"

Crookshanks meows shortly in reply and swishes his tail, turning towards the door and looking back at her expectantly. Exhaling softly, Hermione relinquishes her death grip on the sink and exits the bathroom with Crookshanks padding closely behind.

The clock in the kitchen tells her that the morning is half gone but for the first time since the start of adulthood amidst the backdrops of war, her mind is quiet. There are no thoughts urging her on, lecturing her about the lateness of the hour, insisting that she pushes on and on and on.

With that new peace, Hermione barely gives the timepiece a second glance and crosses the small kitchen to the cupboards where she keeps the tins of cat food. Crookshanks' tastes run towards Muggle brands and she makes it a point to stock up on them whenever she can.

Hermione pulls one can out and rummages the drawers on the lower cabinets for a tin opener. When she finds one, Crookshanks jumps up onto the counter and watches her hands keenly as she slowly works the lid of the tin.

As she pries the last of the jagged edge out, Crookshanks puts a gentle paw on her hand. Wordlessly, Hermione pushes the open tin to the half kneazle instead of bothering with the dish on the floor.

"Were you lonely?" she asks, scratching her familiar lightly as he tucks into his tuna and chicken mix.

Too occupied with eating, Crookshanks doesn't answer, but he does nudge her hand when she stops and cocks his head at her until she returns her hand to where it was.

"I should go in," she says to the quiet sounds of Crookshanks' chewing.

"They're probably worried," she says and she can't be sure but it almost seems like Crookshanks is nodding to her words, though it could just be him trying to get the bottom of the tin.

"Aren't they?" she asks, voice wavering, and Crookshanks finally looks up to give her a pointed look before returning to his food.

* * *

Hermione's much delayed arrival to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures causes less fanfare than she expects of which she's partially grateful and partially bitter about.

The only person that seems remotely glad to see her is a near hysterical Berenice. Upon seeing Hermione, the woman had let out a torrent of loud, choking sobs while attempting to smother Hermione in an embrace.

The other occupants of the mostly empty department barely spare her a glance before ducking back down into their work.

Hermione gingerly pats the petite woman on the back as Berenice blubbers noisily in an incoherent mixture of relief and reprimand. She considers asking Berenice if anything was stolen from the office at the time she was gone but with Berenice going on, she can't quite get a word in edgewise.

Eventually, she admits defeat and submits to the motherly attentions of her young secretary. After having taken a closer look at Hermione's face, the other woman had declared her gravely under nourished and had brusquely pulled her into her own office to shove Cauldron cakes and tea at her.

As Hermione sits there, nibbling on dry cake and listening to Berenice's lecture — she briefly wonders if this is how she sounds like to other people — she smiles, tiny and just this shade of bitter.

Even the department's head, her supposed boss, didn't issue her so much as a memo about her unexplained absence — it is almost like she has never left at all.

That thought only lasts till when Harry and Ron come bursting through, her office door practically flying off its hinges, with the both of them panting heavily and their hair dreadfully mussed.

Hermione had stood, tensed, the moment they had run in.

For a long stunned moment, the three of them just stand there, staring at each other. Then an involuntary gasp tears through Hermione and like the breaking of a dam, all three of them surge forward, engulfing each other in tight hugs, holding on as if their very lives depend on it.

* * *

They ask her no questions and she volunteers no answers.

The relief sketched into their faces is stark and earnest. Hermione can't very well, in good conscience, snatch it away from them by burdening them with the events of her disappearance, not especially when truthfully, no harm had come to her and she had nothing else to show for it.

So she grins and jokes and laughs, and she pretends that the past two weeks — has it really been two weeks? — is just a fluke, a badly done prank, while they play along in mutually agreed denial.

"Hermione?" Harry asks, squeezing her hand lightly — neither he nor Ron has let go of either of her hands since they've appeared. Her palms are disgusting and sweaty in theirs but anxiety hits her when she thinks about letting go, so she leaves her horribly moist hands where they are.

"Sorry, I was just thinking," Hermione says apologetically. "What was that?"

"Don't hurt yourself, 'Mione," Ron teases. Hermione shoots him a withering glare that he responds with a hearty laugh. Try as she might, she can't keep the mock anger up and the reproach dissolves into a soft gaze of affection.

"You'll come tonight, won't you?" Harry repeats. Behind those round lenses, his green eyes are warm and bright under the harsh lights. Terrible lighting conditions seem to persist in all offices regardless of the availability of magic.

"Tonight?" Hermione asks, brows furrowing in confusion. "Where to?"

"The Burrow for dinner," Ron answers. "Mum will be glad. She's been worr- wanting to have everyone together again for a while now."

"Isn't it too late to give her notice?" Hermione frowns, discreetly checking her watch. "Are you sure that'll be fine?"

Ron simply goggles at her while an amused smile comes over Harry's face.

"Clearly you've been awa-" Harry falters, cutting himself off.

"Have you not met Molly, Hermione?" Harry tries again, still smiling though his lips wobble slightly at the corners. Hermione politely fails to point it out.

"Don't let mum hear that you doubt her abilities there, 'Mione," Ron says gravely. "She'll go into a tizzy and I'll be the one to have to pick up the pieces."

"Oh don't pretend you're not going to enjoy all the extra food she'll cook to prove that she can," Harry gibes, giving his red-headed best friend a long, sideway look.

"I have my limits too, you know!" Ron protests and Harry makes a sound that's somewhere between a snort and a scoff. That only serves to further irritate Ron as he brings up a few choice words regarding some of Harry's less than savoury tendencies and before long they're arguing back and forth about who has the most undesirable traits.

Hermione giggles as she watches her two best friends bicker like an old married couple. As if on cue, they both cease their squabble and turn to her, identical expectant looks on their faces.

"Of course," she says, heart clenching painfully in her chest and clutching tightly at both their hands. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

* * *

The Burrow is nothing if not home.

Hermione remembers the first time she visited and saw the humble abode with her own two eyes, having not believed Ron when he described his home to her during the school year.

She recalls wondering who has need for so many chimneys then she remembers well her fervent praying before entering the Burrow that the magic will hold for the duration that she'll be in there.

She needn't have worried.

Walking up the path from the apparition point, Hermione gazes fondly at the odd structure with its physics defying levels and too many flue stacks.

As she nears the main door, a flash of red standing by it catches eye and Hermione squints to try and make out what it is. She slows and eventually comes to a complete stop as she registers the sight in front of her.

Her breath catches and suddenly she's sprinting, hair flying out behind her as she throws herself with abandon into the arms of the person standing there.

"Ginny!" Hermione breathes. "What? When? How? Why?"

"Breathe, Hermione," Ginny jokes, but it comes out weak and strained. At this distance, Hermione can see how pallid Ginny's gone.

"You look like shite, Gin," Hermione comments, eyes narrowed and worried.

"Speak for yourself, Hermione," Ginny retorts, holding out a lifeless brown curl of Hermione's between them.

"Are you..." Hermione begins but swallows the question down like a dry pill. She has no right to ask that, not when the picture on her mantelpiece is still lying face down.

"I'm not," Ginny answers anyway.

"Then why are you here?" Hermione asks, forehead creasing deeper.

"I needed to make sure that you're okay," Ginny says, cutting straight to the point and shooting Hermione a mock glare. "I do worry, Hermione."

"And even though I'm sure they will be playing at Happy Family inside," continues Ginny bitingly while trusting a thumb towards the door of the Burrow. "So are they."

"I know," Hermione says.

Ginny crosses her arms and waits for Hermione to elaborate but when no explanation comes forth, she sighs and uncrosses her arms to let the hang, fists loose, by her side.

"What happened, Hermione?" Ginny asks softly.

"It's..." and for a moment, Hermione wants to tell her everything. She wants someone other than herself and that fucking Gawain to know about the isolated, closely knit coven of once Muggle vampires who looked out for their own, even if it is at the expense of others. But she has no idea how to even begin and the longer the silence drags on, the more she finds herself unwilling to voice it out loud.

"It's nothing, Gin," she finally says. "I just... needed some time." That, Hermione thinks, Ginny will understand. Ginny will forgive. And, she supposes, it is something that is not entirely untrue either.

"That's all?" Ginny questions sceptically.

"That's all," Hermione reaffirms.

"Have you taken all the time you needed then?" Ginny asks.

"I think so."

"I suppose that will have to do," Ginny says before turning at last to the door. She visibly swallows and Hermione quietly slips her arm around the younger woman's.

"Are you sure?" It's Hermione's turn to ask.

"Are  _you_  sure?" Ginny counters, not taking her eyes away from what used to be the only home she's ever known.

"Yes," Hermione answers.

"I've been here all along, Gin," she says. "Oh you know what I mean," she says when Ginny gives her an incredulous look.

"But you... It's not too late to leave," Hermione says.

"Don't give me the choice," Ginny says quietly. "Give me the choice and I'll always choose to run."

"Come along then," Hermione says firmly, tugging the younger girl forward and wrapping her free hand around the doorknob. "They do mean well, you know?"

Ginny laughs derisively before answering, "They always do."

* * *

Silence and frozen faces greet them when they push the door open, all of them — with the exception of Luna — directed towards the estranged Weasley on Hermione's arm.

Ginny's tight smile grows more brittle as the silence stretches on.

"Hello Ginny," says a dreamy voice, and both women snap to Luna who is busy munching on a digestive. "Have you tried these biscuits? They're really good."

Luna's question seems to break the awkward hold over the rest of the clan and Molly is the first to bustle forward, immediately enveloping the two into her bosom.

"My girls," Molly whispers and Hermione can feel the tears seeping in between where her cheek that's pressed against the elder Weasley. Hermione feels Ginny tightening her grip on Hermione's arm and Hermione squeezes hers reassuringly in return.

One by one, the Weasleys, excluding Ron, follow Molly's lead and give them both the same fierce treatment.

When it comes to George, he first hugs his youngest sister, whispering something into her ear that has her nodding before turning to Hermione.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, bending low to reach her ear and drawing her into warm arms. Hermione nods in quiet acceptance and they part.

Some chairs still — will always — remain empty.

George slips away before dinner to hide upstairs, never emerging again for the rest of the night while Percy is still almost as lost to them as Fred is, but with Charlie, Bill, Fleur and little Victoire in attendance as well, it is the most complete the Weasleys have been since the war.

* * *

That night, as Crookshanks lie, purring softly against Hermione's stomach, she dreams of the honeyed voice again.

Like before, it sings to her and beckons her. But this time, underneath it runs a current of sour desperation as it yet again asks her incomprehensible question after incomprehensibly question.

Yes, she answer; the singular word falling from her lips — yes always and yes forever till the bloody sun explodes.

The pain that follows is near unbearable and Hermione writhes, tossing and turning, only settling to a deathly still after Crookshanks awakens and starts hissing at shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not exactly happy with the chapter, to be perfectly honest. I had to move some things around and writing this bit out was like pulling teeth. Still, better out than in, I suppose.
> 
> As always, review. Even a simple "I like it!" helps.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flesh and Blood was updated yesterday.

Lucius isn't prepared for the onslaught when he steps through the study.

The last he's seen of Cissa, she'd been slumped over in the garden, crying into her rose bushes. He hasn't tried to approach her since she threw a rock or two at him with uncanny aim. He'd even went as far as to carefully craft his path through the house so they'd just barely miss each other every time one or the other enters a room or hallway.

It had meant letting Cissa have her way in the matter of Draco, but the words she had screamed at him in the garden still linger in his thoughts and he finds himself increasingly unwilling to revisit the same argument with his grieving wife. He isn't so sure he'd escape intact a second time round.

So far, he'd been successful at avoiding his wife but this time he'd slipped into his study, thinking he had left her behind the previous corner only to have her pin him to the door he'd just closed behind him.

For all that he towered above Narcissa, the woman has a remarkable physical strength contrary to her appearances. Add to that Lucius' general aversion to seeing his wife getting hurt, a fact that she oft takes full advantage of, Narcissa can easily gain the upper hand on her husband at any time she so wishes.

At her mercy but unwilling to subjugate himself at her feet, Lucius stares down at his wife, cool grey meeting stormy blue.

"What is the meaning of this?" he says but Narcissa does not answer. Instead, she just stares at him till tiny beads of sweat collects on his forehead and a prickling sensation at the back of his neck starts to increase to an uncomfortable intensity. He clenches his damp palms to try and relieve some of the moisture to no avail.

"Cissa-" he starts to say but before his mouth can fully form the words, she's gripping his cheeks painfully and pulling him down into a bruising kiss.

Lucius resents the fact that despite everything that happened, she can still get a response out of him.

Her lips meld into his, like a perfect puzzle coming together and he is nearly lost to the headiness that is Narcissa when she bites down on his lip and Lucius jerks away with a pained hiss.

"What are you-" he questions but she doesn't give him a chance to finish before pulling him in again. She fists her hands into his collar and tugs, pulling him as she walks backwards, never breaking contact on their lips. Lucius has to waddle awkwardly while being pulled to keep up the position of their kiss until her back hits the desk and she stops.

Lucius breaks the kiss, keeping both hands on her shoulders to hold her back and looks at his wife, searching, as they both pant heavily from exertion and arousal.

"Cissa, I-" he says but she presses soft fingertips on his lips and he quietens.

"I need this," she interrupts, whispering softly. "I need you."

"Don't let me go through this alone," she whispers, a ragged sob breaking through at the end and whatever reservations Lucius had flees at the sight of his broken wife.

"I'm sorry," he says before crushing her to him and pressing insistent, desperate kisses to her mouth. She retaliates with equal fervour, pushing her soft, pliant body against his.

It doesn't take Lucius long to swipe away the things on his desk, lifting Narcissa and placing her on the edge of the wood. They tug at buttons and jerk fabric away from skin, mutually ignoring the sounds of ripping and tearing of cloth. Seeking hands traverse uncovered expanses of milky skin, groping and pinching and caressing and stroking; it is not enough, it is never enough.

"I'm sorry," Lucius says as he sinks himself into her again and again as tears roll down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he repeats as he tries to will the wetness away from her eyes while he ruts her into the desk, sure that they will leave an imprint on the wood as unspoken proof of their deed.

"I'm sorry," he says again when she comes apart under him, around him, still crying, always crying and he spends himself deep into her where it stains and can never be washed away.

He pulls himself out and off her, mutely picking up the remnants of his clothes. She watches him silently, blue eyes bright through a film of tears. He cannot look at her, unwilling to see the destruction wrought by his hands lying around them, unable to face the aftermath of his choices.

"I'm sorry," he says for the final time before he leaves her, cold and prone, naked on his desk, and quietly slips out of the room.

* * *

For a night and a day, he avoids her again nor does she make the effort to seek him out.

He keeps tabs on her by using the house elves. From them, he finds out that she has retired to the garden after their tryst, and had spent the rest of the day stabbing at the soil and weeding, undifferentiating, weeds and plants alike. At night, when she fails to return to their rooms, they tell him that she has collapsed into a chaise lounge in the sun room and is in a deep if fitful sleep.

Lucius had picked her up and carried her to their bedroom, depositing her gently on their shared bed before leaving the room to sleep in a different one.

He is awake by the time the elves approach him with the news that she has forgone breakfast and has headed straight to the library, pulling stacks of books from the shelves, some titles more disconcerting than others, and is going through them like a niffler that has sniffed gold.

He sends an elf with a breakfast platter off to her and instructs it to make sure she partakes in the food. She manages one plain toast and half a cup of tea before returning to her reading frenzy. When it comes back, Lucius glares at the elf, thoroughly displeased before dismissing it and its pathetic whimpering with an irritated wave.

By the time lunch passes and tea time rolls around with barely a bite of food passing Narcissa's lips, Lucius has started to pace, running a path through the carpet, hands clasped loosely behind him as his fingers twitch madly.

Finally coming to a decision, Lucius stops his pacing abruptly, pivots on his heel and makes his way out the door and to the library.

He finds her, still wearing her gardening clothes from the day before, surrounded by towers of books, most of them stacked rather precariously, with her head buried in a thick tome that Lucius instantly recognises with a poorly disguised flinch.

"What are you doing, Cissa?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

She doesn't seem to have heard him at first but as he moves closer to her, she stiffens imperceptibly and a line of tension running from her neck to the base of her spine appears.

"I'm looking for a way," she says casually, flipping a page like the dark magic contained in its covers doesn't affect her in the slightest.

"Looking for a way to what?" Lucius says, paling slightly. He greatly dislikes the sound of that.

"We are magic and we are pureblood," she says, shrugging. "What is the use of magic if we can't use it to bring-" she cuts herself off and gestures irritably at the books around her.

"Magic has its limits, you know that," he says, trying but failing to keep his tone gentle.

"Does it? Or are we the ones putting arbitrary numbers on an unfathomable scale?" she retorts, eyes flashing dangerously at him. The thought enters him, for a moment, how alike Bellatrix she seems then. "Who decided the rules of what is possible and what isn't?"

"It's not. The Dark Lord has tried and he failed," Lucius says.

"Your precious Dark Lord is not the be all and end all of magic," she sneers and he grips the side of the table between them painfully. "He claimed to be immortal and look where he's at now, rotting in some unmarked grave, defeated by a seventeen year old boy."

"That's precisely what I mean, Cissa!  _He_  tried to cheat death," Lucius reasons desperately.

" _He_  doesn't know everything," she counters, slamming a hand down on the book she was perusing. A moan emits from the book and Narcissa slaps it again angrily. "We have plenty of wealth, time and resources at our disposal. Things that  _he_  didn't have."

"We can't-"

"We can't, we can't, we can't," she mimics, mouth curling cruelly. "When did you start cowering so much, Luci? Ever since your father formally introduced you to Tom fucking Riddle, it's like you've lost your spine."

"It's not possible-"

"The half-blood's dead and you're still pining after him like a lost puppy while your family -  _me_ , your  _son_  - falls to pieces around you," she says, nearly raising to a scream as she pounds a fist against her breastbone, each blow landing with a dull thud.

Unable to defend himself, unable to say anything to reason with her, Lucius stops trying and looks at her, his expression carefully blank. Narcissa scoffs in disgust and returns her attention to the book at hand.

"If you aren't going to be helpful, then leave me," she says and doesn't look up again.

* * *

Lucius walks, absent-mindedly, to a nook in the corner of the library, hidden away from prying eyes.

His close encounter with Narcissa leaves him hollow and numb and he shuffles, like a dead man walking, and somehow ends up sitting heavily down on a ratty, overstuff armchair. The chair creaks slightly from his weight but makes no further protest.

He blinks slowly, as if he's waking up from a dream, and takes in his surroundings.

There is a small table in front of him, covered with a fine layer of dust and piled high with the oddest assortment of knick knacks including a pair of mismatched coloured socks and a hairbrush with black hair that clearly marks no Malfoy still between its bristles.

Lucius closes his eyes and raises shaky hands to cup his face as his breath seems to leave his lungs.

Draco always fancied that no one else — no one  _human_ , at least — knew about his little hideaway in the library. It's something that Lucius had allowed, with some amusement, to him, never letting on the fact that before the nook was Draco's, it had been Lucius'. How the boy never figured out who came to retrieve him to return him to his bed after he fell asleep in that same armchair is beyond Lucius — the boy is genuinely pretty bright otherwise. In later years, the nook had proved a gift as it helped shelter Draco from some of the worst happenings in the home.

That Draco had to seek shelter at all in the first place remains one of Lucius' biggest — unvoiced — regrets.

Opening his eyes, Lucius reaches out, shakily, to the things on the table, absently thumbing the well-worn cover of a book whose title he doesn't recognise.

He laughs, near hysterically, when he reads the titles of one of the other books and discovers that it is one of those penny romances that the witches in school, back when he was still a student, used to read and trade between hushed, fervent whispers.

Lucius laughs harder as he realises he knows some of these, have read them himself, even used them as a pseudo-guide to the wonders of female sexuality at one point only to shun them when he is shown how useless the information is. It had been one very enlightening lesson with Narcissa.

He is gasping and breathing hard with mirth as he clutched at his sides, thinking about Draco going through the same, fumbling awkward, experience that he did, as he curls into the chair, burying his face against the arm to stifle his ludicrous giggles.

The faint scent of Draco's French cologne — one that he filched from Lucius and promptly declared his — weaves its way into Lucius senses and then suddenly his laughter is mixed in with sobs as he rocks himself, tightening further into a ball in the chair.

Later, Narcissa would find him, howling and weeping, fingers grasping plaintively at the fabric of the armchair as she draws him into her arms, lowly shushing and soothing him as he murmurs over and over into her neck, "Our son is dead."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As mentioned yesterday, there won't be an update for this or Flesh and Blood next week because exam. Should resume the week after.
> 
> As always, review. Even a simple "I like it!" helps.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flesh and Blood is also updated today.

Things have almost gone back to normal for Hermione. Or at least, that's what she'd like the others to believe.

Truth be told, she doesn't know if there will be anything such as a normal day for her again. Ever since her return, she's jumped at shadows a few times now, expecting them to reach out and snare her. It takes her ten minutes of holding her head between her knees before she can move on after that.

At night, it doesn't get any better. She no longer remembers her dreams, if she even dreams at all and often she wakes up more restless than she was before she went to bed.

Crookshanks likes to meow loudly, almost as if he's disapproving, when she makes it a point to avoid the mirrors in her house, but ignoring him is easy, so she does. Eventually, Hermione likes to believe, the pretence will become reality, but until then she will maintain the illusion to the others.

Hermione steps out of the red phone booth into the heart of London. The sun, surprisingly bright for once in the sky, prickles her skin and she shies away to the shade.

It's lunch time on a Friday and that usually means she's due for another session with Dr Janet, but two weeks of no show has crumbled her resolve in seeking the help she knows she needs. She can't bear an hour of awkward silence filled with only the ticking from that damn clock and the ever present scratching of the pen against a notebook.

Dr Janet will never be so uncouth as to outright question her absence, but there will be worried glances most likely laced with disappointment and Hermione doesn't know if she can soldier through that as well.

So instead of heading towards Dr Janet's office, Hermione detours to the nearby park and sits under a shaded tree. She will send a letter later, she decides, to Dr Janet, to at least attempt an explanation or, failing that, an excuse. But for now, she gazes out at the playground and tries not to be buried under her thoughts.

A glint of gold flashes at the edge of her vision and Hermione turns towards it automatically.

The little girl is there again on the same swing set, giggling, her hair like spun gold under the sunlight.

A soft smile comes over Hermione's face as she watches the girl, oblivious,  _innocent_ , laughing without a care in the world. Hermione glances around for her mother, but sees no familiar face and turns back to the girl, silently deciding to watch over her until her mother comes to fetch her.

A cool breeze sweeps through the park periodically, rustling the grass blades and leaving a gentle cool air over everyone it passes. Between that and the playful giggles Hermione is lulled into a sedate, peaceful state and that soon has her eyelids drooping.

She doesn't notice the man with the clerical collar that approaches the little girl.

In front of the swing set, he stands and beckons to her, while calling out for her softly. The little girl, who has been lost in her little world, perks up at the sound of her name and her face lights up in recognition upon seeing the man. She waves at him enthusiastically and he returns a friendly wave while saying words that only the little girl is close enough to hear.

She nods when he finishes and jumps off the swing, much like the time Hermione saw her doing through Dr Janet's window. The move seems to startle the man and he makes frantic grabbing motions but she lands on her two feet, complete with that little flourish and relief floods the man's face.

Hermione's eyes snap wide open when the little girl slips her tiny hand into the man's far larger one.

She is on her feet when they turn and start to walk in the opposite direction.

They aren't walking fast, but Hermione's a fair distance away and she sprints but the moment her body lands outside of the shade of the tree, she doubles over and crumples to the ground, gasping in pain as it feels like thousands of needles are being jabbed into her skin.

Hermione spasms and twitches, moaning lowly, as the pain waves and crests over her. She lies there for who knows how long, until a cloud comes overhead and the pain finally subsides as she drags herself to a sitting position, bone-tired.

For a while, she forgets why she's there until it hits her and she looks around, panicked, but sees no sign of the collared man or the little girl.

Bile rises in her throat as various foul possibilities run rampant through her head and shaking madly either from the remnants of the pain or from what she has just let slip by her, Hermione blindly pulls out her wand. Turning on the spot, she disapparates, not caring in the slightest if someone saw her disappear from the park in broad daylight.

* * *

Hermione stumbles when she's deposited in the middle of her bedroom via Apparition.

Some time between her moment in the park and her arriving in her flat, a discomfort, emanating from somewhere deep in her, has started gnawing at her and it's only growing as each second ticks by.

The discomfort swiftly changes its course and she cries out when a vicious pain replaces it, spiking through her and she falls, unseeing, onto her bed.

The pain spikes up again and she writhes in her sheets, clawing at her wrists as though the pain from that will distract her from the one seemingly running through her veins.

Her blood feels like ice and she is suddenly cold beyond relief. It burns a path within her and she screams into the mattress, unable to suppress it. Her bedroom door creaks open and Crookshanks pads in, jumping onto the bed in one smooth motion and butts his head against her while she twists and turns, ripping into her own skin.

He licks her with his sandpaper like tongue, but she doesn't feel it, doesn't even notice him there.

A sickening crack sounds to her ears and it is only when she's trying to scream or moan or say something that she realises it came from her jaw where it has extended and broke, flapping uselessly. The tingling in her gums that has been present since the start of this ordeal surges in a crescendo to an unbearable point and from her throat emits a guttural sound as she feels millions of pinpricks break through the surface of her gums. Things —  _teeth_  — heavy and sharp, settles in her mouth and she near cuts her tongue on one of them when she instinctively runs it over the foreign intrusions.

Her heart palpitates wildly like she's been running and she shudders violently at the beginnings of an icy darkness that sweeps over her vision and seems to spread from within. It coils around her bones, the very knit of her muscles and latches itself onto her veins where it travels up, up into her heart.

It wraps its tendrils around the beating organ and squeezes, and it is not the pain that has Hermione trashing fiercely but the feeling like her stomach has bottom out and nothing awaits there in that yawning pit but that darkness for eternal company.

It squeezes again and Hermione's spine bows backwards, broken jaw moving like a pantomime, before her body sags, dropping onto the mattress and her heart stills.

* * *

Her mouth feels sticky and her mind is disorientated when she flutters her eyes open to a blurred vision and the rising tides of panic.

The panic fades when she blinks a few times and that manages to clear her vision to an almost unbearable sharpness. It prickles and she shuts her eyes for a few moments before opening it experimentally to find it has adjusted to a level she feels comfortable with.

She is sweaty and trying to sit up is like the hardest thing she has to do, so she gives up and lies there until her strength returns to her even if she feels disgusting and greatly in need of a bath.

She doesn't remember what the nightmare she had is about, but she certainly remembers the feeling it gives her and she allows herself the relief, feeling like she's narrowly escaped the clutches of something she's reluctant to put a name to.

Hermione sighs and rubs the heel of her palms into her eyes tiredly.

It is only when she takes a deep breath through her nose that it strikes her that something is wrong. She takes another sniff and cringes like the physical act can separate her from the smell that floods her nose.

She shoots up, weakness forgotten, when it clicks to her what that strong smell is.

Blood. Metallic like iron.

Her eyes widen and her mind descends into chaos when she sees the visceral carnage in her lap. A pool of blood stains the sheets, drying already and her hands hover over them, clenching and unclenching.

She glimpses orange in the corner of her eyes and knows — just  _knows_  — that whatever she sees there will not be moving. She doesn't want to turn her head, doesn't want to  _see_.

Whatever is on and around her mouth is drying and pulling her skin taut and when she goes to scratch it, it comes off in flakes. She doesn't look down at her nails, doesn't want that confirmation.

Gingerly, she picks the sheets up and off her, settling them to the side and tries to manoeuvre out of bed. Nervous, she licks her lips and that is her downfall because now there is no denying what is on her mouth and in her bed and what it implies for that unmoving patch of orange on the side.

The worst is that it tastes good - better than anything she has ever consumed in her life - and it opens a terrible yearning in her that she never realised she had and she wants more.

Hermione tumbles out of her bedroom, wordlessly summoning her wand to her, runs out of her flat and flees into the night, never looking back.

* * *

She runs and runs but she can't even get the satisfaction of the burning in her lungs because there is no breath that needs to go in them and every one that she takes is superficial and serves no purpose other than to fulfil an unconscious habit.

There is dried blood down her front and she supposes she should be thankful that the late night brings about no one to witness her state and report her to the authorities. The last she needs is to deal with the Met Police as well.

Still, she doesn't stop and she can't think about what she's left behind.

She must have run a few miles though her leg muscles do not ache and her pulse doesn't even so much as flutters. Her body feels wrong —  _is_  wrong — like a walking defect and she wants to shed her skin, flay the muscles from her bones but she doesn't know how to do it without directly inviting that  _feeling_  back so she keeps moving and hopes it doesn't chase up to her.

A soft cry stops her in her tracks and Hermione swivels guiltily to the source of the sound, arms coming round to hug herself and to obscure the worst of the stains.

Whoever it is doesn't even look up at her. Hermione doubts that the person is even aware that there's someone else there.

She, for the person is a she as far as Hermione can tell, sways on the swing, her feet pushing back and forth against the ground. Hermione nearly recoils when she realises that her treacherous body has taken her back to the park in the afternoon. Under the moonlight, it looks menacing somehow with hidden shadows all around but the urge to cower and tuck her head between her legs is absent and Hermione isn't sure what to make of that.

Whatever she may think of the new development in her mental state vanishes though when the woman looks up and Hermione instantly recognises her face, tear-stricken as it is.

It is the little girl's mother and in her hands, she's clutching a small teddy bear that looks like it could belong to a child.

The woman doesn't see Hermione, just sniffles noisily and brings the bear to her chest, engulfing it in a crushing hug before breaking out into a fresh wave of cries.

Hermione takes a step back, then another, and another until the park and its lone occupant are well out of sight.

* * *

Hermione understands now why Slava had told her that she'll need to know the address he whispered into her ear all those nights ago.

She stands in front of the house, never having had the chance to see how it looks from the outside and drinks the sight in. It looks, to her disappointment, just like any other house in Britain, with the sole exception that it's nestled a little out of the way, away from prying eyes in this sleepy neighbourhood.

The front door opens easily to her touch and she wonders if there's some sort of ward that keeps undesirables from stumbling across and breaking and entering into the home. There has to be. Muggles they were but powerless and foolish they are not.

She has many questions, most of them accusations and demands, but any hope she has of getting the answers she needs is shot down when she enters the home to face a stillness that can only come from a place that has been abandoned.

Her hands ball into fists as she crosses the threshold into a normal living room.

Her lips curl up into a sneer of disgust as she notes the dust outlines on the walls, no doubt spaces where portraits like Alma's, had once hung. The heavy furniture has been left behind, but all personal affects have been removed. It was methodical — they had planned this.

Hermione thinks of the confinement she went through in this place, of the self-righteous lectures delivered to her by Klavdiya and Slava, of the stains like paint splattered all over her front and her fists shakes as her knuckles turn pale.

A sharp, stinging pain in her hands draws her out of that blank anger and she looks down at her opened palms to see deep crescents dug into the flesh, marring the lines there.

Hermione stares at the wounds, absently lifting them to her face, a pink tongue darting out to the right palm, curling around the red droplets gathering at the cut before the awareness of what she's doing hits her and she jerks her hands away from her mouth.

Shaking her head savagely, Hermione stomps down the hallway, wrenching open door after door until she finds a bathroom and slips inside.

She heads straight for the tap, twisting it so a torrent of hot water gushes out from it and she thrusts her hands underneath it, hissing as the heat sears her but not removing them from the scalding water.

The water barely turns pink before it swirls down the drain. She watches, unblinking, as her skin knits itself till it is smooth once more, leaving no marks at all.

Hermione starts, jolting her head up to find an equally startled face looking back at her. She stares and stares at her reflection as an arm lifts trembling fingers to touch her temple where there should be an obvious scar but there isn't.

Hesitant, Hermione stretches out her left arm, the inner forearm facing frontwards and slowly, she pulls up the long sleeves that she always wears to bare even, unblemished,  _unscarred_ , skin, its twin reflecting back to her in the mirror.

Hermione lets her head fall back, bushy curls brushing against her back and she roars her impotent rage to the ceiling, shaking the empty house to its core.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can already feel some of the outrage coming from you. The whole Crookshanks bit has been in the plans from the start, so... sorry I'm not sorry?
> 
> As mentioned in Flesh and Blood, there won't be an update next week, resuming again in the new year. Happy Holidays to everyone!
> 
> Reviews are our lifeblood. Even a simple "I like it!" helps.
> 
> Anyone's welcome to reach me on tumblr if you wish to: elantil-arcacia


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flesh and Blood was updated yesterday.

Dust flies up around them when Lucius slams a book cover down harder than is strictly necessary. Narcissa doesn't even bother to look up at her husband, barely blinking as she skims through the thick text in front of her.

They've been at it for ages now. If a month has passed with them residing permanently in the library, Lucius wouldn't be surprised. Already frightfully pale to begin with, the complete lack of sunlight has rendered the pair of them positively ashen. At the right angle under the candlelight, they could easily be mistaken for corpses.

Lucius pushes the book away, a scowl breaking through the normally precisely calculated mask that he dons for the public eye. Narcissa arches one refined eyebrow at him and returns to her browsing of the pages.

"There is nothing, Cissa," Lucius says when the stewing silence gets to be too much for him to bear. A rustling of paper and the sound of a book spine bending open is all that answers him.

"We've been through the entire archives three times," he continues. "I have touched more of... _these_ books than I care to for my entire lifespan. And meanwhile- " Lucius trails off abruptly, stiffening slightly as he thinks involuntarily of the bedroom, occupied in the loosest sense of the word, and the elf that frequents it daily to give sponge baths to someone who no longer needs it.

"There is nothing," he repeats and rubs the heel of his palms onto his lids, eyes dry like he hasn't blinked for a million years.

"No," she says and Lucius sags, with relief or despair, he hasn't decided yet. "There is always something. Always." Staring pensively at the book in front of her, Narcissa closes the book shut and tucks it neatly away to the side before turning to Lucius.

"If we can't find it here, then we must simply be looking at the wrong place," she says. He looks at his wife, her delicate features set in determination — he can barely even see the desperation any more — and he wants, _yearns_ , to believe that. Yet. And yet.

"Luci?" she says, reaching out a hand to his and curling her smaller fingers into the crook of his palm. Her tone is so gentle and her gaze so filled with _concern_ that it makes Lucius want to set the world on fire, one person at a time.

He clutches her fingers and rubs his thumb along her knuckles, a gesture meant to soothe her but with every passing second seem to be more for his own benefit.

"Are we getting our hopes up?" he says wretchedly and it sounds worse having been given a voice to than it did rattling in his head. "What if the magic was right all along and this business is just some fanciful bollocks cooked up by some third rate magician?"

"Cissa, I..." he says and the sharp look Narcissa gives him is warning enough. "I'm just trying to protect you, for once. We don't have to do this. You don't need to go through that again."

"I don't need your protection, Luci," she says, face drawn tight and voice brittle but when she tries to shake his hand off, Lucius refuses to relinquish it. "I didn't need it then, I don't need it now."

He hears her take a breath. If he knows her at all then the next retort to his protestations is already ready on the tip of her tongue.

"I can't go through that again."

Her face softens, insofar as Narcissa Malfoy's face could soften. To the untrained eye, there is little to no difference but to Lucius, a drooped eyebrow from his wife is far more meaningful than a smile on any other person.

"If we find the right spell then we don't have to," she says softly. "We'll be together again, as a family."

This time, when he clutches her fingers involuntarily, she grips his back with equal fervour. Silently, she pushes her chair back; her hand still clasped in his, and comes round to his side of the table just as he turns to face her. Like the steps of a dance that they've perfected, she steps into the space between his legs and he snakes his arms around her waist, burying his face into her stomach as she runs her fingers through the length of his hair.

"We can't bury our son, Luci. We can't," she says and quietly, he nods his assent.

* * *

Knockturn Alley is as dodgy and filthy as Lucius remembers it.

A man comes stumbling pass them, missing knocking into Narcissa by inches, and slumps against a nearby wall. When the man smiles, blackened gums and rotting teeth show. He displays no signs of embarrassment as he unbuttons his pants and begins urinating on the very wall that he landed on.

Lucius sneers at the sight, and careful to put himself between the man and Narcissa, the couple continue their path down the increasingly shifty parts of Wizarding London.

The bell above the entrance of Borgin and Burkes clangs as the Malfoys open the door and step over the grimy threshold.

"Ah! A customer! What can I do-" Borgin says as he emerges from the back, stopping in his tracks as he catches sight of the two arrivals. "Mr Malfoy. Mrs Malfoy."

The three adults stand there at a momentary impasse. It is clear Borgin still remembers the last time a Malfoy made an appearance in his shop and has made no effort to mask the wary suspicion in his expression.

"Mr Borgin," Narcissa greets and that seems to break the tension as Borgin shakes his head, murmuring "Yes, yes, what a delight," and gestures them forwards.

Lucius places a protective hand on the small of Narcissa's back and gently guides them both towards the shop counter.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence in my humble shop?" Borgin says, wringing his hands. The passing years have not been kind to Borgin. His stoop has become even more pronounced and his greasy hair has thinned significantly yet despite all that Lucius finds the grovelling to be still the most unappealing aspect of the man.

"We wish to acquire some texts of a... delicate nature," Lucius says as he watches the way Borgin's eyes light up and darts side to side, no doubt already calculating how much he will be overcharging them.

It's a tad presumptuous of him, but if he really is able to deliver, then Lucius would gladly pay him his weight in gold.

"And what sort of ah... nature is that exactly?" Borgin asks, lips smacking in a way that has Lucius' fingers twitching. Out of sight of Borgin, Narcissa moves to grip her husband's arm tight in warning.

The barest of grimaces flashes across Lucius' face before it is schooled back into the cool mask.

"We're looking into the ways of bringing a person back from beyond the veil," Narcissa says before Lucius can answer Borgin.

Borgin frowns. "But Necromancy is just... hearsay. It doesn't work," he says.

"If I needed a lecture on the impossbilities on the theories of the magic, I'd have gone to Hogwarts, Borgin," Lucius interjects, irritated. Narcissa lays a placating hand on him before he can say anything else.

"You misunderstand, Mr Borgin. We're not looking for Necromancy," Narcissa says smoothly. "We're looking for resurrection."

"You're mad!" Borgin blurts out and cringes immediately following a scathing look from Narcissa. The one he gets from Lucius has him physically recoiling.

"You can't mean to bring... _him_ back," Borgin whispers, eyes wide as his pince-nez slides almost comically down his nose.

"Don't be a fool, Borgin," Lucius says, voice low and quiet. Knockturn may govern its own but ears may perch everywhere. "You'd do well to stop presuming _his_ reign was pleasant for any of us. Don't presume to know our motives. "

"I... I see," stammers Borgin.

"Well?" questions Lucius, arching an eyebrow.

Borgin shakes his head slowly, gaze flitting from one Malfoy to the other. "There isn't anything. Neither on Necromancy nor- nor resurrection. Nobody can break the hold of death."

Lucius stares coolly down at Borgin while at his side, Narcissa turns away to look vacantly out the grimy windows.

"Then," Lucius says. "What use are you?"

Borgin blanches and pulls away from the counter like it has seared him. "S-sir, you can't-"

"What did I say about presuming, Borgin?" Lucius interrupts. Turning to Narcissa, he holds out an arm, "My Lady?"

Pulled away from her gaze out the window, she accepts his offered arm and loops her own into the crook of his elbow, nodding silently.

The bell clangs behind them, signalling their exit.

* * *

Their exit from Borgin and Burkes may have seemed calm and collected but inside Lucius is anything but.

If he were the type to be prone to hysterics, he'd be hyperventilating the moment Borgin announced it impossible. The man may be a slimy bastard but he was a well-connected, resourceful slimy bastard. Not much slip pasts his greasy crooked fingers and now the chance of them finding what they're seeking has reduced to a near nil.

About the only thing really keeping him upright at the moment is Narcissa. That she looks almost as lost as he feels is something he'd rather not dwell on.

"Lord and Lady Malfoy, I presume?"

Lucius cane is up and under the man's chin before he can even finish his sentence while Narcissa's thumb caresses the handle of her wand, her wand arm hanging deceptively loose at her side.

"I assure you, there is no need for that," the man says, taking a jaunty step back away from Lucius cane. Lucius' lids flicker in recognition.

The man from before, the one with the indiscriminate pissing and delightful teeth, bows to them, complete with a little flourish.

"What is this then?" Lucius asks, adjusting the cane to point at the man instead.

"A friendly proposition," the man says and smiles. Lucius would much rather he did not.

"I know what you need," the man says and smiles wider. If Lucius hadn't known better, he'd think the man is doing it just to spite him.

Lockhart he may not be, but what he is saying has Lucius stiffening to a painful point.

"How did you-"

"How do I know? Does it matter?" the man asks, waving a hand dismissively. "What matters is that I have what you need."

"How dare you-"

"Eavesdrop? No, no, no," the man tsks and waggles a finger at them. "I do not eavesdrop. That's only for charlatans and hacks trying to convince you that poor mummy is very happy in heaven indeed and if you love her you'd give this nice psychic all your money, thanks. "

"No, I _know_ ," the man says and spreads his arms wide as if to emphasis his point. "And there is not much that I do not."

"Ho-" Lucius starts to say before he is abruptly left soundless while still moving his mouth in an imitation of speech, almost as if a Silencio has been cast over him.

"I'm afraid that," the man says and for the first time Lucius is genuinely disconcerted by their current predicament. "If you continue to insult my intelligence, then I shall be very cross indeed."

"Forgive my husband for his poor showing," Narcissa says as Lucius turns sharply to her, mouth working mutely. "It has not been the most pleasant of days, you understand."

"Ah, the lovely Narcissa Malfoy nee Black," the man says, holding a hand out to Narcissa in which she slips hers into and he bows over to give her a kiss on the back of the hand. "A pleasure."

"The feeling is mutual," she says, all diplomacy and simpering pureblood wiles. "But I must confess to some confusion as to what exactly you're offering."

"You play coy. A woman after my own heart," the man says, laying a hand on his chest where his heart presumably is and smiles charmingly at Narcissa. Lucius blinks when for a moment the man's teeth seemed impossibly white. "If the lady insists, allow me to clarify then."

"I have with me," the man says and reaches into his robes pocket to pull out a thin, leather bound book. "The power to disturb the peaceful rest, to rejuvenate one's metabolic processes, to right the bucket, to relit the mortal coil, ring up the curtain and paint the choir invisible visible again."

Madness. There is no other explanation, Lucius concludes.

"You doubt me, Monsieur Malfoy?" the man says, shifting a lazy gaze to Lucius. Still unable to speak, Lucius' answer is a slight narrowing of the eyes. Narcissa pinches him hard in the side and he knows that she'd be no help to him here.

"I suppose I can't fault you," the man says, running a tongue under his upper lip so it juts out slightly. "But then again, what other option do you really have?"

"What-" Lucius says, startling, as his voice is returned to him. He hadn't even heard a murmured Finite. "What are your demands?"

"Now why would you think me so uncouth?" the man says, pouting.

"No. This," the man says and waggles the book in the air. "Consider this a gift. An altruistic act from little old me."

If the first red flag hadn't been raised earlier, all of them are now waving frantically. Nothing good will come out of it, Lucius knows, and he is sure Narcissa knows this too, but...

Lucius turns to Narcissa and she looks back at him. The lines on her face have doubled since the night he'd left Draco out there in a woeful attempt at teaching him a lesson. Her eyes has lost their lustre and most of what she does these days is based on a forced routine to avoid thinking about that bedroom in the east wing.

Lucius hasn't looked at a mirror recently. He hasn't wanted to.

What other option do they have?

Still staring at Narcissa, Lucius holds out a hand towards the man. Uncaring about this rude display, the man deposits the book into Lucius' open palm and claps in glee to himself.

Lucius retrieves the book and flips through it. He frowns.

"This is..." Lucius says.

"Ah yes," the man says, pounding a fist against the other palm like he just remembered this little detail. "It's in Aramaic, of course."

"If you had a passing knowledge of Arabic you could decipher it," the man says, dark eyes glinting. "I'll even throw in the proper cypher."

"Though, I suppose, you don't actually know Arabic do you?" the man says, shaking his head as if disappointed. "What a pity."

"Cut to the point, what is it that you want?" Lucius says, the book almost bending in half in his grip.

"Nothing of import. How about a fair trade?" the man says. "You know, a little equivalent exchange, if you will."

"Go on," Lucius prompts when the man didn't seem to care to elaborate.

"I'll trade you the knowledge of the Arabic language and script for your knowledge of French," the man says. "Fair, is it not? And I suggest you don't question the hows. I'd hate to start back at square one."

"Then why? Why would you do this for us?" questions Lucius, suspicion lacing his tone though he clutches the book like he has no intentions of giving it back.

"What was it that you said? Ahhh... Let me see... 'Don't presume to know my motives' was it not?" the man says, tapping a finger on his chin thoughtfully. "For all you know, I could just really want to know French. It's the language of love and all that. I hear it works very well with the ladies."

His words and body language are all jest, but Lucius hasn't dabbled in politics for so long without knowing a thing or two. As if the man had just been reading his mind, all of a sudden, the man's lazy gaze turns sharp and the corner of his lips curls maliciously.

"Here's an advice. Take it for what it is — a friendly proposition," the man says. He then snaps his fingers — an act Lucius suspects is more for show than is required — and grins at Lucius. "It is done."

"You two will be wanting to run along now. You have a lot of work to do," the man says and gives them both a pointed look and nods at the book before pivoting on his heel.

"Wait," Narcissa says before the man can leave. He doesn't look back, but does cock his head to the side to indicate that he's listening. "Who are you?"

The man half turns his head and though there was nothing to block the light, the halve of his face facing away from them seemed to be cast in unnatural shadows.

"I go by many names," the man murmurs as he peers at them beneath his lashes, which Lucius only now notices are very, very long. "Iblis is one of them."

"Enjoy, you crazy kids," the man says as he mocks salute two fingers in the air and continues walking away.

Like one, the couple surged into each other's arms, the book crushed between them as they each let out shaky breaths. This close, Lucius can feel the slight tremors dancing on her skin, his heart seemingly beating in time with her shivers.

When next they look in the direction the man left to, all that greeted them was empty air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do apologize for the late replies to all the reviews. I hope the New Years treat you all well.
> 
> As always, review. Even a simple "I like it!" will help.
> 
> Come find me on tumblr if you wish to chat: elantil-arcac


	15. Final Chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flesh and Blood is updated as well. Enjoy.

"No, Luci."

Lucius looks up; glasses perched near the end of his nose and a finger tracing the line that he's been reading. Narcissa hasn't done him the same courtesy. Her head still remains bowed over the parchment that she had murmured to. Her ink stained fingers clutch too hard at a frayed quill as she scratches it against the paper, writing furiously.

With wisps of blond hair escaping the tight braid that she normally sports, the light hitting them just right to form a halo around her pale, refined features, Lucius thinks she's never looked more beautiful.

He pauses his dictation from the text, the same finger marking the spot that he's stopped at and allows himself a moment to drink in the sight of her. Her quill comes to a gradual halt when she realises he's stopped speaking and though it takes a while, she finally raises her head to him.

It's hard to miss the red rims around her eyes, harder still to ignore the ink spreads on the parchment where drops of water have fallen on them. Lucius leans forwards and brushes a knuckle against her cheek.

"It'll be okay," Lucius says at last. "Everything will be okay."

"This can't be it," she whispers, moving back slightly and Lucius lets his hand slump to the table, similarly pulling away from her.

"It is," he says, taking off his glasses and wiping the lenses with a nearby cloth. "Equivalent exchange, remember?"

He chances a glance at her but she seems to have lost her nerve and has averted her gaze elsewhere, noticeably avoiding the books around them. Lucius sighs quietly and picks a book, not really caring which one he took. It doesn't matter. They're written in English but when he looks at them, the words are unrecognizable, a fact that has nothing to do with his lack of glasses.

He traces the letters, moving his index finger to follow the shape of an 'A'. It feels strange — all at once familiar yet unknown like a distant memory he can't quite recall or an itch just beneath his skin that he can't quite scratch.

Equivalent exchange. The man — Iblis — didn't lie.

He sighs, standing up, leaving the thin book gifted to them by the very same man where it lies on the table and approaches Narcissa, his shadow falling over her.

"Come, my love," he says, offering a hand out to her. "The rest can wait."

She looks like she's about to protest but Lucius holds up the book that he'd picked up earlier and her mouth closes as she stares at him, her eyes roving over his face. He smiles, an uncharacteristically affectionate one, and says, "Will you read to me?"

"You want me to read _A Quintessential Guide to Herbs and Mushrooms for the Inquisitive Housewife_ to you?" she says, her eyebrow arching with trace humour.

"Yes," he says mildly.

"It'll bore you," she protests though she's already slipping her hand into his for him to help her up like the gentleman that he is bred to be.

"Never," he promises, giving the gentlest brush of his lips to her knuckles.

That night, when she has fallen asleep against him, the book hanging loosely from her hands, Lucius gently takes the book from her and places it quietly on the floor. In his arms, she stirs momentarily before settling further into his side.

"You will have our son back," he whispers to her. "No matter what it'll take."

* * *

Hermione stands vigil as the moon hangs high in the sky, watching and waiting.

She wipes at her mouth, but the persistent stickiness she feels there is imaginary — her hand comes away dry and clean. It is no relief for the unslaked thirst burning a hole in her stomach, further propagated by the darkness scratching way at the edges of her being, just waiting for a slip up.

The blood helps but only by so much.

She thinks of the man she dropped off at the A&E earlier, anaemic and more than a little confused but alive and will continue to be. Each night she takes a little but stops before it crosses the point of no return — it only makes the yearning worse but she has to believe that it is enough.

Hermione swallows dryly and shuffles further into the trees, tucked away from the streetlights, as the church doors open to let the congregation out. She hadn't seek him out on purpose, but she likes to think of it as serendipity, that she'd run into him on the way home from another trip to the hospital.

She had to be sure first that it is him, after that it's only a matter of time before she studies his habits and learns his night schedule by heart.

Now she hangs back and waits for the last of the flock to trickle out to the streets and into their cars, away to the safety of home.

When the last car door has slammed shut, Hermione slips out from the shadows — funny how she had once feared them — and strolls, leisurely, up the stone steps of the church to the heavy, closed doors. For a brief, quiet moment, she stands there, admiring the way the flickering lights from within shine through the stained-glass windows. If she squints, she can almost trick herself into thinking they are dancing fairy lights.

Grasping one brass knocker in hand, Hermione places the other on the wood and pushes. The door opens smoothly and closes just as soundlessly behind her. The man at the front of the church, his back towards Hermione, remains as oblivious as ever to her presence.

"Hello, Father."

The man startles and stumbles, knocking over a basin of holy water from the altar he was bent over. Hermione watches with some amusement as he whips around, one hand catching the altar for balance and the other going automatically to clutch the rosary hanging from his neck.

His eyes widen then relax as he sees her. He glances around and past her but seeing no one else, he returns to look at her.

"My dear girl, you gave me a fright," the priest says, expelling a little relieved laugh. "Forgive me, I didn't hear you there."

He smiles expectantly at Hermione, waiting. When she does nothing but tilts her head to the side and stares back wordlessly, his smile grows a little hesitant.

"I'm sorry, but... you just missed mass," he says, fingers fidgeting with his crucifix. Hermione's eyes darts to them and he abruptly lets go, letting the beads fall to his chest. "They've all gone home."

"I'm not here for mass, Father," Hermione says, focusing now on his clerical collar. The man's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows.

"No? Then what can I do for you, child?" he asks, eyes glazed with mild confusion.

"I'm here for a confession," Hermione says simply, her eyes still fixed on his neck. He slips a finger into the collar, pulling at it, but realising what he's doing, quickly removes it and clasps his hands together instead.

"Oh! I'm er... It's quite late," he says but when that prompts nothing but a continued steady stare from Hermione, he clears his throat and stammers on. "But uh... Oh, alright. No rest for the wicked eh?" He chuckles weakly.

"Right uh... come along then, child," he says, taking a few steps to the right side of the church and beckoning her along. "The booth is this way."

"Oh no, I think here is fine," Hermione says, not moving from her spot.

"Well, traditionally, we do it in the booth, which is over there," he says, taking a few more steps to illustrate his point.

"I'm quite alright here, thank you," Hermione says pleasantly.

"Look, I don't know what pranks you young people like to play these days," the man says, stalking back towards Hermione, any trace of nervousness evaporating under the growing weight of irritance and anger. "But if you're here to yank my chain then you're better off going home to your parents."

"You mean like you let the girl go home to her mum?" Her tone still the same pleasant one as before.

"What? What are you talking about?" he says, brows knitting together. An epiphany seems to come over him, his eyes narrow and he shoots an accusing gaze at her. "You're mad."

"You misunderstood me, Father," Hermione says, casually disregarding his accusation. "I'm here for your confession. Now, what did you do to her?"

"Do what to who?" the priest asks, bewildered. "I think you've got the wrong person, miss,"

"Answer me."

"You should leave before I call the police," he says, shaking his head and reaching into his robes to fish out his mobile.

"I'm afraid I can't let you do that," Hermione says and darts forward, snatching the mobile before the man can even blink and crushes the device in one hand. She stares at the mangled phone, the speaker emitting a sharp static and then it stops, silent forever. "Well, that's unexpected."

The man scrambles away hurriedly, backing into the altar. A vase falls off and shatters on the ground, spilling water and flowers everywhere.

"What- What do you want? I have- I have no money," he stammers, looking around frantically.

"I want you to answer me," Hermione says, advancing. "What did you do to her?

"I don't k-know who you're talking about..." he moans, gripping onto the altar like a drowning man at sea. "Please, let me go. I'm just a lowly priest, please..."

"Where is the girl?" she asks again.

"What girl?" the man says, voice rising in hysterics. "What girl?! I don't know anything!"

"Wrong answer."

She opens her mouth wide, sharp teeth glistening under the candlelight.

"Tell me, Father. Where is your god now?" she says before teeth rips into skin, puncturing muscle and opening up vessel to relieve it of its sweet, sweet vitae. The man's jaw works in a silent scream, his throat tensed and taut against her lips, and this time, Hermione doesn't stop. She doesn't let go when the last twitches leave his body, not when his body grows cold as the warmth seeps into her, not until he is dry and she is sucking at nothing does she release him with a wet smack.

The priest's body slips from her loosened grip to the floor. She pants even if there's no need for it and her eyes are glassy as she stares, senseless, at the huge glass-stained window adorning the front of the church.

For the first time in a long while, she feels light, untouchable and completely satiated.

* * *

Lucius sweeps his hair back, tying it up with a leather thong. He wipes at his forehead where some of his hair still cling on to and it shines with a light sheen of sweat.

He presses his palm against the small of his back and bends backwards, stretching as his joints pop and muscles pull. Drawing the circle is doing hell to his back but since he's the only one who can remotely understand Aramaic, they aren't exactly spoilt for choice. A small hand joins his in massaging his lower back and he turns to smile gratefully at Narcissa.

She is quiet and far more troubled than he's ever seen her. He smiles and tucks a stray hair behind her ear.

"Shhh, _Rohi_ ," he soothes. "Don't despair."

"I'm not," she says and Lucius chuckles, stroking the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone.

"Of course not, _Hobi_ ," he says placating, but when he makes to move his hand away, she captures it between hers instead and holds it, just shy of touching her lips.

Lucius extends his finger and touches her soft, bottom lip. She bites down on it as her eyes flutter close. He takes the moment to look at her, really look at her before slowly, gently, he extricates his hand and turns away to continue his task.

He hears her quiet sigh but doesn't look back. They've already said what they needed to say, done what they needed to do, anything else will only make it harder than it needs to be. With that, they both continue their work in silence till the last rune is in place and the arcane circle is finally whole.

"You've informed Mitzy?" Lucius asks, wiping his hands with a rag to rid it of the chalk dust.

"Yes," Narcissa says as she inspects the circle to the finest detail to ensure that it is all done right. "They're preparing the food now."

"Good," Lucius says and throws the rag down. He straightens and looks at his wife. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be," she answers and steps out of the circle. Lucius bends down to pick up a bronze dagger, made perfectly as transcribed in the book. It is plain and not at all elegant, but when he utters a few words over them, it shines blue and grows warm in his hand. He can almost feel it pulsing, like it's a living thing as he wraps his hand securely around the handle.

Outside the circle, Narcissa begins to chant. Her pronunciation isn't perfect and she stutters a few of the strange words but the spell isn't fussy over the details so long as the actual words are spoken.

It really is masterful spell work — elegant in its simplicity.

Lucius watches Narcissa carefully as she intones the words he taught her, and when she's about to near a crucial point, he readies the dagger, raising it inches over his abdomen.

He feels the right moment upon him when an invisible force, unstoppable and insistent, seems to take over his limbs and plunges the dagger into his stomach, slicing it across as his blood spills onto the circle below.

He can feel his intestines unravelling as the knife twist and turns in his gut. There is pain but it is overwhelmed by the oddest sensation, like his skin is being pumped full of water and he is swelling. And then it is as if the earth has fissured, a yawning, gaping chasm of absolute darkness opening at his feet. He is engulfed by a maddening cacophony of screams and whispers, his own hoarse howls joining in the pandemonium before he disappears suddenly and Narcissa is left alone, tears running down her cheeks.

* * *

 

"Mother?"

Narcissa bolts upright, unaware when she has fallen asleep or lost consciousness. A sharp sting like someone has inserted a thin spike shoots through her head and she clutches the side as she grits her teeth and hisses through the pain.

"Draco?" she manages, voice warbling. Lucius... Lucius is gone. Her head throbs and she screws her eyes shut for a moment.

"Mother," Draco moans. Narcissa's eyes fly open and she stumbles to her knees, hands feeling the ground as her eyes adjust to the dim light. "Mother, I'm so hungry."

"I know, Darling, I know," Narcissa soothes. She sees white hair, propped up against the wall just beyond the circle and crawls towards it. "Mitzy and the others have prepared a feast for you."

"Feed me, Mother," he pleads. "I need to feed."

"Soon, my dragon, soon," she replies. The distance between them seems too far, it feels like she's been on her knees for ages and he's still far from her grasp. Finally, _finally_ , she reaches him and she draws him into her arms, unable to fully believe that he is there, _alive_.

"No..." he moans, muffled against her hair. "I need it now. Mother, it hurts..."

"It wants... so badly," he says. Suddenly, he pushes Narcissa back so hard, she lands on her bum, jarring her tailbone, but her personal agony matters not, not when her son is clearly suffering.

"You're too close... I can't," he says, gasping but then he stops and raises his arm, like he's seeing it for the first time.

Narcissa screams when Draco bites down on his arm and tears off a hunk of it, chewing and swallowing. He goes back for another and another, devouring his arm, his own self, again and again.

Red smears his mouth and stains his hair.

"Draco, stop!" Narcissa cries but he continues on like she hasn't spoken.

"No!" she cries as she clamps her hand over his mouth. He swiftly grabs it and bites down, teeth sinking into the fleshy area of the palm.

Narcissa bites back a scream as she stares at her son. She reaches out with the other hand, shaking, and smooth the hair back from his face. "It's okay, Draco."

"It's okay," she smiles.

"Go ahead. Eat."

**Fin**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it. This and Flesh and Blood are finally at an end. Between the two (and I do officially count them both as one fic), I've put in around 85k words. It's the first multi-chaptered fic I've finished. This is me proving a point to myself that I can write something that is novel length and that I can finish a project. Thank you to everyone who has followed me on this absurdity of mine - every single one of you has made the process worth it.
> 
> So, I do have several multi-chaptered fics (the point may have been proven but the work is not yet ended, besides it really has been quite fun) planned.
> 
> Just to name a few:
> 
> 1\. Dark!Harry AU - this will be long and terrible and it'll probably be the death of me, but hey, a challenge.
> 
> 2\. Changeling AU - Discworld inspired
> 
> 3\. Muggle AU
> 
> And some possible one-shots. If you're interested in reading any of them, then follow me as an author. I haven't figured out the update schedule for any of them and it'll likely be a few of weeks before there's anything concrete, but I will try my best. In the meantime, why not read some of my other one-shots?
> 
> Thank you again for reading and lastly, as always, review. Even a simple "I like it!" makes my day.


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